


Mortal Allies Episode 3: Postcards From the Edge

by Passion4Spike



Series: Mortal Allies [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 75,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Passion4Spike/pseuds/Passion4Spike
Summary: Yeah, Spike had joked that he’d send her postcards, and he had left that one on her door before he screeched out of town, again, with Dru, again. But would the Slayer of Slayers really send the Slayer of Vampires postcards? And would she even read them, if he did?Spike and Buffy have gone their separate ways – Spike with Dru towards Brazil, Buffy keeping the Hellmouth contained in Sunnydale – but they can’t quite get the other one out of their systems. Does distance make the heart grow fonder? Are they still mortal enemies? Or mortal allies? Friends? Freinemies? Penpals? Or just phantoms that won’t stop haunting their thoughts and dreams, no matter how hard they try to forget?Teetering on the razor’s edge between friends and enemies, which way will they fall?
Relationships: Drusilla/Spike (BtVS), Spike/Buffy Summers
Series: Mortal Allies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1151681
Comments: 33
Kudos: 46





	1. Hate You Too

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Author’s Notes for the Story:**

**Timing/Set up** : Season 3, begins sometime after Band Candy, but before Faith’s new ‘Watcher’, Gwendolyn Post, shows up. This begins two days after Buffy returned from going on the road trip with Spike (the vampire) to rescue Drusilla. If you haven’t read the previous episodes of this series, or if it’s been a while, there is a reminder in this first chapter of what has happened thus far.

We will be following both Spike and Dru in Mexico and Buffy and the gang in Sunnydale for this episode. There is a timing difference between the two, often with the Spike POV being a few days before the Buffy one, but sometimes it is reversed. Don’t dwell on that too much, it’ll make you insane. Trust me. It’ll work out in the end.

Some things will happen out of order from canon as we’ve gone AU. I will attempt to explain or at least hint at the changes from canon that happen within the story, but I just don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten things as we go along.

This story (episode 3) is complete at 12 chapters and the next story (episode 4) in the series is also complete at about 37 chapters. I will begin posting number four right after this one ends. I have the majority of episode five done, also, and hope to be able to begin posting it right after four is done. So, there are three stories in the pipeline coming up pretty fast.

**Warnings** : This series is a VERY SLOW burn leading up eventually to Spuffy. It will _not_ happen in this episode. There is Sprusilla sex in this episode, but it is not very graphic. Keep in mind that Spike is still an evil vampire, the truce is not in place, so he will do some evil things. Trigger warning for a female child being in danger, threatened with sexual violence and death (but it is not carried out).

**Thanks** : All the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to my two wonderful Beta readers, Holi117 and Paganbaby. Extra special thanks to Holi117 for all the time she spent brainstorming with me and keeping me from wandering off into the woods. And PB has my undying awe and gratitude for creating the wonderful banners for these stories! She rocks, and never tells me what a pain in the butt I am!

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Phew! That was a lot of notes!

* * *

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50791276043/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

_I am a Guardian of the Twilight. I have the magic of the Romani in my blood, but I live in Sunnydale with my hooman. They call me Spike. I am a good boi. Everybody says so._

_My hooman is Buffy. She is the Slayer. She is my very bestest fren and I am hers. We are slaying buddies. We run and fight and crunch the bad rabbits. She calls them ‘vampires’, but they crunch like rabbits. They are very, very yummy. It is my favorite thing – crunching rabbits!_

_There are good rabbits, too, like the white rabbit, he has same name as me – Spike. He gave me to my hooman when I was just a little bity boi. I’m a very, very big boi now – everybody says so. My hooman and I went on a wonderful adventure with white rabbit and he fed me yummy cheezeburgers, which are even better than rabbits, but not as crunchy. He is my fren. We chased rats and fought a bear and rescued the skinny rabbit. It was very much fun._

_The skinny rabbit sings to stars and gives good ear scratches. She is called Drusilla. She does not eat cheezeburgers. I think there is something very wrong about that. She belongs to the white rabbit, so Buffy-fren says no crunch. I am not sure this is good idea, but my hooman is smart, so I try to listen._

_The white rabbit and the skinny rabbit went away after our cheezeburgery quest. I miss my Spike-fren. I miss the yummy cheezeburgers. He also gave me fries. My Buffy-fren says I will get fat with cheezeburgers, but I think I am not getting too fat. I think my hooman also misses the white rabbit – he got her yummy cheezeburgers and she did not get fat._

_There are confusing rabbits, too, like the brown rabbit. My hooman calls him ‘Angel’. I do not like the brown rabbit. I think he is not a good rabbit, but my Buffy-fren says no crunch. The white rabbit and I are in agreement – brown rabbit should be crunched. White rabbit and I growl whenever we see brown rabbit. I do not crunch – hooman says no. She says also no chewing and no peeing, but I find ways to keep brown rabbit away. He makes my hooman feel bad. I do not like him. Not at all._

_But I still try to be a good boi._

_I go with my hooman on a new mission today. It is to a place we have been before – the big building with the smell of many hoomans. I feel buzzing on my fur when I am in this place – it is not a good place. Very much evil. And there are no cheezeburgers. But my hooman is the Slayer, and she goes into not good places very much. I go too. I am her fren. I will crunch the bad things with her._

_Spike is a good boi. Everybody says so._

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Her dog’s warning growl rumbled through the still morning air as they approached the building, which stood silent and ominous on this Saturday. Buffy reached her hand out and buried her fingers into Spike’s thick, soft coat, whether to soothe him or herself, neither knew. The coppery highlights of the long lion’s mane of fur around his neck and shoulders shone in the sunlight as if they were made from new pennies, standing out against the dark, nearly black, undercoat. Spike’s tail, usually a flailing weapon of mass dust-bunny destruction, went rigid and still, and his whole body grew more tense with each step.

“It’s okay, Spike,” Buffy assured him as they neared the doors to the dreaded, evil lair known as Sunnydale High. “It’s only Giles… I hope.”

“Grr-rawrf!” Spike pointed out, his eyes flashing with an inner fire; hot, blue-white lightning dancing behind the gentle brown exterior.

“I know, he wasn’t too happy with us for going off with Spike – the other Spike – on that mission to save Dru, but he’s not going to actually hurt us,” she assured the huge dog, shaking him a bit by the scruff of his massive neck to calm him.

The little puppy she’d first met had grown and grown _and_ _grown_ over the last several months, and the vet said he wasn’t done yet. He looked like the love child of a mastodon and a bulldozer. Buffy didn’t actually have to reach down to pet him since his back was about the height of her hips. She was a little afraid she’d have to start reaching _up_ soon, though. He was a gentle giant most of the time, but when he sensed danger or evil, he could be downright scary – and deadly. Right now, he was clearly torn about which to be – fierce or cuddly. “He’ll just say words, probably big, unpronounceable Giles-words, in a disapproving tone, scrub at his glasses, and tell us not to do it again. As if that stupid vampire showing up and blackmailing us to go on a mission would ever happen again.”

Buffy looked out toward the road, her eyes scanning back the way they’d come. Spike followed her gaze, whining hopefully. Buffy sighed. “No, we can’t go back home. And no, he’s not here. He’s gone with Dru – again… like he promised – _again_.”

Spike huffed out a heavy sigh of resignation.

Buffy shouldn’t feel bad about that – about the blond menace being gone. She _so_ didn’t need Spike and Dru here in Sunnydale. That would be of the bad. The truce – the second one – was over. Those two in Sunnydale would mean only one thing – she’d have to dust them. Dru? Yeah, well, maybe that wouldn’t be so hard. But Spike? How do you dust a vampire you were sort-of friends with? A vampire who stashed yummy surprise M&Ms in your overnight bag? A vampire that was just so un-vampire-like that it made you question your whole mission in life? A vampire that told you things about your ex which had your head, and your heart, reeling? A vampire with lips that could curl into an annoying smirk at a moment’s notice, and a tongue that seemed to have a mind of its own, and brilliant blue eyes that saw everything, and cheekbones that were sharp enough to slice cheese, and abs that could convince her to do her laundry on them, and ….

“Bad Buffy,” she muttered, shaking her head and looking back at the high school. “So, so bad.”

She sighed and looked down at her companion. “I don’t think Spike’s gonna drive up and save us from Giles. We made our bed, so it’s time to face the medicine.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy was happy to see that no one else was in the library when she pushed the door open and entered.

She half-expected Giles to have assembled all the Scoobies here, awaiting her arrival, intervention style – maybe even Angel, too. That hadn’t worked out so well for any of them two nights ago, though. She couldn’t help smiling at the memory of her mortal enemy taking every one of them to task for their hypocrisy and lack of gratitude for all she’d done for them over the last year and a half.

Of course, she wasn’t any damsel, she could fight her own battles – even against her friends – but watching the blond master vampire defend her honor had felt, well, kinda nice. Not really damsel-y, just… nice. William the Bloody could see her so clearly, see her struggles and her strengths, and just zero right in on the target, pulling the righteous indignation rug right out from under her friends’ feet.

The words he’d written on the postcard he’d left on her door before he’d skipped town flittered through her mind, ‘ _You might not be a damsel, but you deserve to be treated like a princess. Hate you. Your friend, Spike._ ’

Her smile grew wider as she thought, _‘Hate you too, Spike,’_ and dropped down into one of the chairs at the research table.

“Is there something you find amusing in this?” Giles scolded, coming out of his office, carrying a steaming mug of tea and his Watcher’s journal. “Because, I assure you, your behavior was… well, reckless, comes to mind.”

Buffy’s smile faded and she buried her hand into Spike’s thick coat again as he sat down on the floor next to her chair. The low rumble of a growl began again as Giles came up to the table, setting the cup and his journal down opposite her.

Giles arched a brow at the massive dog. “And you, sir, may desist with that. I understand you went along with the scheme to rescue Drusilla, siding with a master vampire in the process. I am quite disappointed in you, as well.”

Spike’s growl faded to a chastised whine and he slid down until his belly was on the floor and settled his chin onto his paws.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Buffy defended, mostly to the dog. Her tone slipped into baby-talk as she looked down at him, leaning over to run a hand along her big dog’s back. “He did what I said. Yes, he did. Cos he’s a good boy. Who’s a good boy?” she cooed to him.

Spike’s tail thumped loudly against the chair leg, the whining coming to an end. He lifted his big head, his mouth dropping open, tongue lolling out as he looked up at her, clearly pleased with the praise.

“I’m fairly certain you did not instruct him to befriend Spike,” Giles continued, looking back up at her.

“We had a truce – I told him to… be truce-y,” she pouted, turning her attention back to Giles, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can we just get on with this?”

“Just as soon as the others arrive,” the Watcher replied, pulling a chair out to sit at the end of the table.

Buffy groaned, rolling her whole head back to look up at the ceiling. Of course, he’d called the whole gang. What fun is beat-the-Buffy without the whole gang ready to tag in? She’d thought she’d gotten away without an intervention meeting, but no, apparently not.

“Despite what happened upon your return the other evening, this is not meant to be a confrontation. I simply believe it would be easier to get the whole story into the open at once, don’t you?” Giles asked placatingly. “This way there will be no misunderstandings or second-hand accounts floating about.”

“Fine,” Buffy huffed out, though her tone indicated it was anything but ‘fine’. “But it really wasn’t all that interesting. We drove to Wyoming, we got Dru from the gypsy, we drove back.”

“Just that simple?” Giles asked skeptically, opening his journal to a new page and pulling a pen from his jacket pocket.

“Well, there might’ve been a bear… and some rats… and elk blood, and a Waffle House, and car-karaoke,” she admitted.

“Yes, well, let us wait for the others then, shall we, as I’m sure they would be interested in the full details.”

Buffy sighed. Again.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“So, let me get this straight,” Xander interjected when Buffy stopped talking to take a bite of her donut sometime later.

The right side of the boy’s face was a massive, swollen bruise from Spike – the vampire – bitch slapping him two nights ago. Xander had said exactly the wrong thing about Buffy’s choice of lovers and road trip companions, and the blond master vampire at her side had taken exception to it. She was honestly shocked Spike hadn’t punched him with a powerful closed fist… possibly killed him. It’s what _she_ had wanted to do in the heat of the moment. Buffy thought that it had to be painful for Xander to talk at all, but that, apparently, wasn’t stopping him.

“The puppy that Spike – the vampire – gave to your mom before leaving town after the whole Acathla thing, is some kind of mystical demon-fighting dog…”

“’Guardian of the Twilight’,” Giles interjected.

“And Drusilla stole it from some Romani gypsies...”

“Apparently the same ones that cursed Angel – Jenny Calendar’s people,” Giles added.

“And they’ve been breeding these dogs for centuries to protect their villages from vampires…”

“And werewolves,” Giles clarified.

“Which explains why he doesn’t like Oz very much,” Willow mused.

“And he has healing saliva… which, kinda gross, gotta say, but also… cool,” Xander continued. “And the guy that kidnapped Dru to get him back, just let you keep him… and gave you Dru, too?”

“Pretty much,” Buffy agreed around the cruller in her mouth. “He said it was ‘kismet’ – Spike said that meant ‘fate’ – for us to end up together. I don’t know why the guy didn’t just say ‘fate’, I mean, wouldn’t that be easier than ‘kismet’? Why do people have to use such big words when little words work perfectly well?” she asked, looking pointedly at her Watcher.

“Be that as it may,” Giles sighed, cutting off any further ramblings. “Did he give you any further information about the dog’s powers?”

“No, not really. In fact, it was Spike – the vampire – that noticed the healing thing. The gypsy guy didn’t tell me anything about it,” Buffy replied. “But Spike – my Spike – saved vampire-Spike from a bear in Wyoming. So, pretty strong, right?”

“What!?” was the combined chorus of voices from Giles, Xander, and Willow. Buffy had been interested to note that they hadn’t brought Cordy or Oz to this meeting. She wondered if it was because William The-Bloody-Perceptive-Vampire had busted Xander and Willow for apparently playing kissy-face behind their respective partner’s backs. Her friends’ horrified and guilty looks, along with spluttered negations of the accusation Spike had leveled at them during his defense of Buffy’s honor, told the Slayer he was right. Something was up with them… something that should not have been up, since they were both dating other people.

Buffy shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah, a bear had broken into Spike’s car and stolen the cooler of blood when we were stopped for a potty break. My Spikey saved him… and ran the bear off.”

“Fascinating,” Giles muttered, making notes in his journal, then he looked up, brows furrowed. “Was Spike badly injured?”

“I saw parts of Spike I never wanted to see – like his literal guts,” Buffy confirmed.

Giles’ brows rose and he bent down to look beneath the table at the dog.

“Oh! No… my Spike wasn’t hurt at all,” Buffy clarified. “The stupid vampire who decided he could fight a bear had all the damage.”

“I see,” Giles muttered, leaning forward and leveling his gaze on Buffy. “He seemed quite healed the other evening,” the Watcher pointed out warily. “If the bear stole the blood, then…” he let his voice trail off, his eyes drifting to Buffy’s neck.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “He didn’t bite me. No Slayer blood was spilled in the healing of Spike,” she defended with a huff. “We got to the next town and I got him elk, moose, and buffalo blood… and we had Dru after that. I think maybe sire blood is a thing?”

Giles sat back in his chair, eyeing his Slayer speculatively. “But he… suggested you donate?”

Buffy shrugged. “Well, duh! He’s a vampire. I told him ‘no’.”

“And he simply accepted that?” the Watcher asked incredulously.

“Yeah, actually, he did. No means no,” Buffy retorted, tilting her head to the side to make sure Giles could see her neck clearly. The old scar from The Master was the only thing marring her flesh. “I know it’s super-weird, but Spike’s… he’s like, honorable or something. We had a truce – if I donated, he would’ve taken it, but he wasn’t going to, like, attack me. Not that he could’ve – cos totally trashed, but that’s not the point – he _wouldn’t_ have. Even when we had to share a room—”

“I beg your pardon!?” Giles spluttered.

“Oh… um, didn’t I mention that?” Buffy cringed – she hadn’t meant to spill that little tidbit.

“No, I don’t believe you did,” Giles said through gritted teeth.

“Sooo, I was right,” Xander began, scorn dripping from every word. “Maybe not by fangs, but there was penetr—"

“Finish that and it’ll be the last thing you say for weeks,” Buffy snarled. “For the record, I hit way harder than Spike.”

Xander had wisely stopped talking mid-word, his mouth going dry and throat tight under the Slayer’s hard, furious gaze.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. Buffy had to force her hands to uncurl from tight fists, flattening them on her thighs with considerable restraint. “Spike and I are _friends_ ,” she said after a few tense moments, her tone forced into a frighteningly cool calm. “And enemies. We’re… we’re frenemies, and _nothing more_. You can tell by the fact that he has a _girlfriend_. She’s a complete ho, and a whole box of marbles shy of a Happy Meal, but he loves her. And honorable people don’t fool around on their partners.” Buffy arched a brow, letting her gaze shift between Xander and Willow a moment before adding, “ _Do they_?”

The two teens both dropped their eyes to the table and began mumbling agreements as they shoved their chairs slightly further away from each other. Buffy still didn’t know exactly what was going on with those two, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. She’d have to talk to Willow about it later – Willow would spill the beanie-weanies – she was a horrible liar.

“Can we move on now?” Buffy sighed impatiently. “Because there is something else we need to talk about – it concerns Angel.”

“Oh? Are you going to let us know now why you didn’t inform us of his return?” Giles asked coolly.

Buffy blew out a dejected breath. “I know I screwed that up,” she admitted, her anger and feeling of superiority melting like Jell-O in the microwave. “I didn’t say anything at first because, well, I wasn’t sure if it was just… like, a mistake, and he’d be taken back. I didn’t want to open all that up again if he’d be gone as soon as someone figured out the clerical error and issued a recall. But then… he was still here, but he wasn’t totally lucid, and he was weak, and… well, I was afraid you’d…”

“Dust his murdering ass?” Xander interjected angrily.

Buffy grimaced, but nodded.

“He seemed perfectly lucid when he came to me about your impromptu mission with Spike,” Giles pointed out, holding a hand up to forestall more comment from Xander.

“When his memories came back, he asked me to wait before telling you. He had his soul back – he had it when I sent him to hell. It wasn’t Angelus that came back, it was _Angel_ , he wasn’t any danger to anyone,” the Slayer explained, looking up at Giles. “I know it was wrong, and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but he… well, he’d helped us before… helped _me_ when I needed it—” Xander made a scoffing sound, but Buffy kept talking. “And I just… I…” She sighed. “I screwed up. I get it. I’m sorry,” the Slayer admitted. “But that’s not what we need to talk about.”

“No? Then what is?” Giles asked, still sounding disapproving and displeased with his charge’s actions.

“Spike has a theory about Angel and the gypsy curse,” Buffy revealed, sitting forward and leaning her elbows on the table, regaining her composure. “He thinks that… well, that Angel might’ve known how to break the curse for a long time. That it wasn’t just… _you know_ … that was the key to perfect happiness, but having a Slayer give herself to him – heart, mind, soul and… and, errr… body.”

Giles’ brows lifted and he removed his glasses, reaching for the handkerchief to begin scrubbing them. “Indeed?” he prompted, not looking up at Buffy. Thankfully, he was just as uncomfortable talking about ‘S-E-X’ with her as she was with him, so skimming over that part with euphemisms was a silent, but mutual, agreement.

“Spike said he knows of two times since the curse that Angel was in the same city at the same time as the Slayer was – 1900 in Beijing, and 1977 in New York… and then, of course, Sunnydale in 1997,” Buffy related.

The Slayer stopped and let that sink in a moment before continuing, “I mean, if it was just… _you know_ … that brought him perfect happiness, you’d think, well… that seems sort of reckless of the gypsies. How many guys do you know, guilt-ridden or not, who will go forever without… _you know_?”

“So, you are saying that Angel has been… stalking Slayers for the last hundred years?” Giles asked, putting his glasses back on, his previous annoyance replaced with concern.

Buffy shrugged. “Maybe it was just coincidence, but it does seem like… well, like it should take more than a normal ‘happy’ to break such a powerful curse? Like, maybe it would take a Slayer – a symbol of… I don’t know – goodness or purity – to give herself to him, to…” Buffy swallowed, looked down at the table, and said very quietly, “To… sully herself?”

Xander made a disgusted noise but Giles stopped whatever the boy was going to say with an icy glare. The Watcher turned back to his young charge and reached across the table to lay his hand over hers. His voice turned compassionate, assuring her, “That is not what you did, my dear. You are very much a symbol of goodness and purity – you simply shine with it. It is your greatest strength… and perhaps your greatest weakness. You follow your heart, which is not always the most sensible of guides, though I’ve seen you use it as an incredible source of power.” Giles squeezed her hand reassuringly before continuing, “I have said it before and will say it again: what happened with Angelus was not your fault. His actions are his own. I do wish you had told me that he’d returned, however. Your lack of trust in me is… hurtful.”

Buffy blinked tears from her eyes before looking up to meet his solemn gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she rasped.

Giles nodded. “I know. We sometimes say and do things that hurt those we care most about without ever meaning to,” he allowed, patting her hand one last time before withdrawing.

Buffy nodded and looked back down at the table, taking special interest in the swirls and lines making up the faux woodgrain. Beside her, Spike let out a low whine and pushed up to a sitting position, dropping his big head onto her legs beneath the table. Buffy’s hand brushed through his thick fur, taking the comfort he always offered so freely. Like his namesake, furry Spike seemed to always be able to read her mood, her emotions, to see inside her right to her core.

It was one of the things that made her furry friend so comforting. It was also what made the master vampire so dangerous, plus infuriating, annoying, irritating, frustrating, unnerving, and exasperating. Not to mention snarky, flirty, piggy, funny, sweet, smart, thoughtful, and surprisingly kind. Add in the fact that he fed her and her dog lots of yummy treats – chocolate (for her) and beef jerky (for the dog), and cheeseburgers, fries, and onion rings (for them both) – and that made Spike, the vampire, the perfect frenemy.

Giles cleared his throat, recomposing himself and pulling Buffy from her inner thoughts. He looked back at his journal and made a couple more notes. “Well, this new theory does seem to be something that may require further inquiries and research.” He looked back up at Buffy. “May I count on your assistance in this?” he asked, looking up at Buffy.

Buffy raised her eyes to his and nodded resolutely. If Spike’s theory was right, if the key to breaking the gypsies’ curse was getting a Slayer, _any_ Slayer, to give herself to Angel – mind, body, heart and soul – then it could happen again. As Spike said, when you’re immortal, what’s a century one way or the other? If one Slayer didn’t fall for it, then just find another. There was always a new one getting all choseny every few years, or months, or days.

Beyond that, she needed to know. Her heart needed to know if Angel had ever loved her, or if his demon was pulling the strings behind the scenes, maneuvering them both to its own ends. She wasn’t sure her heart could take the answer, but she had to know.

Her soul still ached for what had been lost. No, not lost. Willingly given then horribly destroyed. She’d still loved Angel when she’d sent him to hell. She’d still loved him when he’d miraculously returned. During the intervening months, she’d mourned him with every fiber of her being. Without Spike, her little furball, she was sure she would’ve been lost, broken and bleeding. But the puppy had saved her. Of course, her friends and her mom had helped, too. It had taken them all to get her through those dark days. Spike staunched the bleeding with doggie kisses, her mom mended the shattered pieces of her heart with hot chocolate and pints of Ben & Jerry’s, and her friends – mainly Willow – allowed her to find hope with long talks late into the night.

But here she was, getting ready to rip all those old scars open again, just to find the truth. Had her young, naïve heart just been used and then tossed aside like so much garbage? She gritted her teeth, swallowing back the hurt and pain that rose at the thought, threatening to spill from her eyes. She would not cry. Would not spill more tears because of Angel. She absolutely refused.

“I suggest we begin with research,” Giles said, breaking into Buffy’s thoughts once again. “The sooner the better.”

For once she didn’t moan at the suggestion, but instead nodded again.

Giles stood up, heading for his personal library in his office. “I-I believe we can piece together something of a-a timeline of where the active Slayers were deployed in what years from the Watcher diaries I have. I-I may need to contact the Council to fill in blanks,” he muttered almost absently, the research plan coming into focus in his mind.

“I guess that means we need Scooby snacks and plenty of caffeine for fighting the research-induced narcolepsy,” Xander offered, dropping back into his normal role of sustenance procurement officer as he popped up out of his chair. “Supreme pizza with all the toppings?”

“Extra cheese,” Buffy suggested.

“No anchovies,” Willow added, before turning her attention back to Giles. “How will we know if Angel was in those places once we get that all done?”

Giles stopped and looked back at Buffy, his brows raised.

“I think that’ll be my job,” the Slayer sighed in resignation. “Interview with a vampire.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Mom! We’re home!” Buffy called later that afternoon as she closed the door after Spike ambled in behind her. Joyce appeared in the doorway from the kitchen as Buffy dropped down heavily onto the couch, rubbing her tired eyes. Apparently, Slayer strength did not include the ability to slay pompous old man handwriting for hours on end.

“How’d everything go?” her mom asked as Spike greeted her with a friendly shoulder-block to the thigh. Joyce reached down to scratch the big dog’s ears as she stumbled back slightly from the greeting.

“Okay, I guess… as well as could be expected,” Buffy sighed, slumping back against the cushions, her eyes still closed. “I still don’t know exactly what’s up with Willow and Xander. Every time I tried to get Wills alone, she totally blocked me. On the good news front, Giles thought it was worth looking into Spike’s theory about Angel and Slayers. On the bad news front, we got to try and decode Watcher’s diaries all afternoon. I’ve met and exceeded my reading quotient for life. I never want to even _see_ another written word.”

Her mom laughed lightly at the joke before asking, “Did you get finished?”

Buffy huffed out a tired sigh and shook her head against the couch back, letting her eyes rest as she spoke. “Not even a little bit,” she admitted. “It’s gonna take a while.”

A reasonable person may have assumed there would’ve been a monument to all the girls who had died in the war against evil. Something like the Vietnam War Memorial would’ve been good, with all the Slayers listed on it—dates, cities, names—but no. No monument existed. There wasn’t even a comprehensive list. Apparently, the Council was too busy ruining young girl’s lives and cutting them tragically short to bother with remembering who they had been.

So, Buffy, Giles, Willow, and Xander started a list, with a goal to at least cover the last couple of centuries. Willow set up a list on the computer with dates, cities, and Slayer’s names so new information could be easily added or inserted as it was uncovered. The process had been slow, and they were going to have to get more information from the Council, more diaries, to make a comprehensive list. And, of course, Buffy would have to talk to Angel at some point and find a way to get him to open up about the past – a subject that generally turned him into Mr. Avoidy.

“Did Xander apologize for being so rude the other night?” the older woman wondered as Spike leaned against her, basically pinning her against the door jamb and extorting more scratches and rubs, his tongue lolling out happily as she obliged him.

“Pffft,” Buffy snorted, opening her weary eyes to look at her mom. “I don’t know what his malfunction is—” she began, but her mom gave her a knowing look. “Okay, maybe I know what his malfunction is,” the girl admitted. “But he needs to get over it. It’s just not happening between us. I just don’t feel that way about him. There’s no sparkage. We’re just friends.”

“Like you and William are friends?” Joyce asked, her tone light with a hint of teasing as she gave Spike one last pat on the top of his huge head and slipped past him. The big dog huffed in resignation, turned around three times in place, and plopped down on the floor with a thud that rattled the windows.

“Will—?” Buffy started to ask, before realizing who Joyce was talking about. “Oh, Spike. Yeah, exactly like that,” she asserted with a firm nod of her head. “Friends… actually we’re frenemies, with complete lack of sparkage.” ‘ _No matter how blue his eyes are or how much cheese could be sliced on those cheekbones or laundry done on those abs.’_

Joyce sat down next to Buffy on the couch. “And you’re done reading for life?” she continued, a small smile playing on her lips.

“So done,” Buffy agreed, rubbing her eyes again.

“Well, I guess you won’t want this then,” Joyce said with resigned gravitas, holding up a postcard and waving it casually in the air. “I’ll just toss it…” she continued, starting to get up.

Buffy’s eyes flashed open and focused on the colorful cardboard that her mom was waving under her nose like smelling salts. A surprised squeal sounded from her throat, excitement showing through her normal defenses, and her hand started to dart out to snatch it from her mother. She stopped the motion just in time, lifting her hand and tucking her hair behind her ear instead.

“What’s that?” Buffy asked, doing her utmost to sound only vaguely interested.

Joyce shrugged and turned the picture to Buffy. “Apparently someone with the initial ‘S’ sent you a postcard.”

Buffy cleared her throat and pushed down the giddy butterflies that suddenly swarmed though her, forcing herself to nonchalance.

The always-perceptive dog raised his head from the floor, tilting his head as he watched his hooman, the sudden change in mood drawing his interest.

“Spike? What does he want now?” Buffy grumbled, barely restraining herself from grabbing the card from her mother’s hand. “Has Dru gotten herself abducted by aliens or something?”

Joyce smiled at Buffy’s attempt at annoyance, but she’d been a teenaged girl once, and Spike was, well… Spike. “One way to find out,” she pointed out, handing the card to Buffy.

With a put-upon sigh, Buffy took it, flipping it over to read. _‘Miss me, yet?’_ was scrawled across the left side of the card. In her mind, she could see his smirk, hear the confident, teasing rumble of his voice in the words. Her address was written in a shaky hand on the right of the card, as if he were driving and writing at the same time. Beneath his message were the letters, _‘HYYF —S’_

Buffy covered a giggle with an exasperated huff and rolled her eyes, though inwardly her heart did a funny little skippy thing. A reaction that was completely _not_ sparkage – the evil vampire sending her a postcard absolutely did not rate sparkage! She turned the card over to look at the picture again. It was the iconic Hollywood sign with the words, _‘Greetings from…’_ above it and _‘Movie Capital of the World’_ below done in a throw-back style from the fifties or something. Spike had drawn fangs and eyes on the first ‘O’ in ‘Hollywood’, turning it into a vampire.

Trying to stop the grin that threatened to split her face was almost painful. But the Slayer managed to maintain an outward calm while the fluttering butterflies in her tummy were making her whole body thrum with a pleased satisfaction. She checked the postmark – he’d mailed it just the day after he’d left Sunnydale. _One day._ One day and he’d sent her a card! Just who was missing who, huh? A growing, smug warmth suffused her from head to toe at the thought.

Her resolve slipped a bit and a small smile quirked her lips as she ran a hand over the thick card that had been in Spike’s hands only a couple of days ago. He’d stopped, picked it out, bought a stamp (she hoped! Firmly blocking out an image of him draining a postal worker for a stamp), remembered her address… he’d been thinking of _her_ that whole time.

The wooly mammoth of a dog heaved his considerable bulk to his feet and padded over to Buffy, his brows furrowed, soft brown eyes curious. “Look!” Buffy said to the dog, holding the card out for him to examine. “It’s from Spike. You remember him, right?”

The dog sniffed it, then sneezed, his whole body jerking with the explosion of air from his nose.

“Ewwww! You don’t have to be jealous,” Buffy chastised. “He addressed it to you, too – see?” she cajoled, showing the dog the address. “Buffy and Cujo Summers,” she read aloud, unsure of the dog’s ability to read – she wouldn’t actually put it past him.

Spike sat down next to his hooman, leaning against her legs, and let his mouth fall open in a doggie grin, apparently placated.

Buffy sank one hand into her friend’s thick coat, turning the card over in her other hand, unable to completely wipe the smile from her face or stop the tingling joy from making her heart thud faster than strictly necessary.

“Yeah, I can see there’s no sparkage there,” Joyce teased, patting a hand down on her daughter’s leg before standing up. She’d missed seeing her girl’s smile. The several months since Buffy’s seventeenth birthday had been so hard on the teen – there had been few smiles and way too many tears. Maybe now, with her eighteenth birthday on the not-too-distant horizon, Joyce hoped that Buffy could start to move on from those dark days. If it took another vampire sending her postcards from the fringes of her life to help Buffy do that, then Joyce welcomed them. She liked Spike. She even trusted him. She’d never gotten the creepy vibes from him like she had Angel. And, anyway, he was safe. Not only was he far away, he was utterly and completely devoted to Drusilla. Whatever sparkage there may be would never turn into an actual fire. It was just a phase, a school-girl crush that would fade with time. It was one of those things everyone went through – a normal rite of passage for all teens.

“Oh, no… totally not,” Buffy agreed, trying to force her lips into something more serious and less elated.

“Just friends,” Joyce added.

“Absolutely. It’s just a friendly postcard, which friends send each other, like… people of a friendly persuasion,” Buffy rambled.

“Just like Xander,” Joyce continued as she started for the kitchen.

“Uh, yeah, exactly like that,” Buffy continued with a firm nod, though she cringed inwardly. Xander did _not_ induce butterflies or skippy heartbeats… but then, Spike shouldn’t either, right? Cos, well, evil vampire, for one. With a girlfriend, for two. And, they were just friends… well, frenemies, for three.

“Well, I’m glad to know you have such a thoughtful friend,” Joyce said, stopping to look back at her daughter. “One who would send you a postcard just one day into his trip.”

“Oh, well…” Buffy excused with a flippant wave of her hand. “He probably just thought I hadn’t seen the Hollywood sign before.”

“Oh, yeah, that must be it. It was so hard to miss, growing up in L.A. and all,” her mom continued teasing.

“Exactly. You know, way up there on the hill in the smog – so easy to miss!” Buffy agreed, also standing up, the postcard clenched in her fingers as if it might simply vanish if she released it. Spike rose too, preparing to follow her.

“What do those letters at the bottom mean?” Joyce asked. “HYYF?”

Buffy furrowed her brows, doing her best to look confused, and turned the card over to examine it. “Oh, huh,” she said, as if just noticing them. “I’m not sure.”

Joyce rolled her eyes and shook her head, clearly not buying it, but not pushing. She started for the kitchen again. “Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she called back over her shoulder.

“Okay!” Buffy replied as she turned and raced up the stairs, her furry friend at her heels.

In her room, she pulled the first postcard that Spike had given her from the frame around her mirror. With a gleeful bounce, she threw herself onto her back on the bed with both cards clutched in her hands.

The girl turned the original postcard over to look at the picture. It was from the vibrant and exciting city of Metropolis, Nevada – where they’d stayed over during their last day on the road during the mission to save Dru. It had a glossy, colorful illustration of a Waffle House on the front. The yellow restaurant was poised atop a green hill with a blue sky above and bright rays of sunshine glowing behind it. The words, ‘There is a light that never goes out,’ were at the bottom.

Turning it over, she read the note he’d written in flowing, elegant handwriting, ‘ _You might not be a damsel, but you deserve to be treated like a princess. Hate you. Your friend, Spike._ ’

Buffy turned the new card over, her smile widening again, she couldn’t help it now. Unbidden sparkage flashed like tiny fireworks in her chest and fluttered joyfully in her belly. Buffy didn’t even try to squash it or stuff it back down into the river of denial where she knew it belonged. It felt good to be remembered, to be thought of, to be… missed.

_‘Hate you. Your friend, Spike.’_

_‘HYYF –S.’_

“Hate you too, Spike,” she whispered back, still grinning like a loon.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Here's a storyboard for this chapter. If you've downloaded the story and no pictures show up,[you can see it at this link](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/50791045028_c7c437a6e6_b.jpg).**

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50791045028/in/dateposted-public/)


	2. Good Boy, Spike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's sometimes confusing with two characters named 'Spike' in this series. (I have been questioning my own sanity regarding that decision!) When those two are in the same scene, I will try to make it clear who I'm talking about. In this episode, however, you can assume if we are in Mexico, it is the vampire, and if we are in Sunnydale, it is the doggie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra sloppy doggie kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It really means a lot to me!
> 
> This chapter beta’d by my wonderful friends, Holi117 and Paganbaby. Pre-read by TeamEricNSookie. Wonderful banners by PaganBaby. Thanks so much to all of them not only for catching my mistakes but for their support and encouragement! All mistakes are mine cos I can’t stop fiddling.

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[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50791321588/in/dateposted-public/)

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**_Mexico._ **

Spike took a deep inhalation from his cigarette as he wandered down the nearly-empty street in the small hours before dawn, grumbling to himself the entire time. Dru had been in a snit the whole trip so far, whingeing about leaving the sodding dog in Sunnyhell, about the car smelling like ‘sunshine’, even about his music! She never complained about his bloody music!

Would’ve preferred having the bleeding Slayer in the car, even if she wouldn’t let him smoke. He stopped and considered the fag in his hand. The vampire took another long draw on it and deliberately exhaled a cloud of blue-grey smoke, which hovered around his head in the still air. He jerked his chin and smirked in a, _‘So there!’_ gesture aimed at the absent Slayer, then continued walking.

He had to admit that the Slayer as a road trip companion did have some benefits. For one, he could prod the silly bint into diverting arguments and amusing hissy fits. Her irreverent wit, cheeky innocence, and that wholly infuriating way she had of turning every little thing into a brilliant row kept things interesting, at least. Could even have a sane conversation with the bird if he was in a serious mood, or he could feed her a line of bullshit a mile wide and watch her try to figure out if he was taking the piss or not.

A smile curved his lips as he thought about the vexatious little blonde, how her green eyes would spark with fire when she was angry, turn hard as chipped granite with determined stubborn grit, or shimmer with emerald tears if he said something that blasted through her defenses. So bloody easy to read, that one. Could practically see the wheels turning in the depths of her eyes, like an endlessly churning sea, as she processed everything, saw everything, even things he tried to hide from her. Couldn’t decide which look he enjoyed more, which of her many moods— 

Spike stopped dead in his tracks and blinked. What the fuck was he thinking?! The Slayer was an annoying, bossy, stubborn, irritating, mulish bint and… and good bloody riddance to her and that sodding furball, too! Nothing but pains in his arse, is what they were. Always wanting food and potty breaks, making up inane rules about ‘air quality’, forcing him to drink that rancid pig’s blood, and stop the car on top of a mountain so she could listen to a bloody-awful song on the radio.

And, on top of everything, he had to save them from that sodding bear. Got himself properly torn up trying to keep their sorry arses outta harm’s way, he did. And the selfish prude wouldn’t even give him a taste o’ her blood for his troubles.

“ _Pffft_ ,” he snorted and started walking again, the empty cage in his hand thumping lightly against his thigh. The Slayer and that mangy mutt weren’t his problem now. He just needed to take care of his dark princess, get her out of this funk and back to her normal, wickedly sinful self. And, above all, make her forget that bloody dog. If there was anything Spike knew, it was how to handle Dru. Get her the morning paper, a few rats, maybe a spot of torture, and she’d come ‘round.

Spike stopped at the end of a debris-filled alley, his senses telling him this was a likely spot. He kicked an empty tequila bottle, sending it sailing through the air and shattering with a satisfying smash against the brick wall at the end of the passage. Rats scurried and squeaked, scampering away from the sound.

“Right then,” he muttered, looking at the days-old produce and other rotting detritus overflowing the cans. He took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked it away as he considered the alley. He usually had minions for this part of the job. Or a sodding huge dog with a bark that could send rats fleeing for their lives. He smiled, remembering the rat hunt with Cujo, then started to laugh as the Slayer’s shrieks of panic and indignation replayed in his mind.

“Told the stubborn chit to stay in the car,” he chortled, as he thought of her whirling like a dervish and screaming like a wee lass as she slapped at the rats that swarmed over her. 

Spike was still laughing as he waded into the alley…

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Well, that was a bloody slap and a tickle,” Spike groused as he retreated from the hunting grounds. He held up the cage and peered at the two rats he’d managed to snag. True, they were big and juicy looking – Dru’d love ‘em – but _two_ rats? Not nearly enough to get her mood to turn.

He looked down at himself. Could’ve been worse – only a few stains here and there. Which is why he only had two rats, unwilling to sacrifice his dignity or wardrobe for the cause. He sighed and started walking again. Maybe there’d be an alley that was a little less rubbish heap and a little more rat-condo that he could raid.

As he walked, restaurants, apothecaries, bodegas, and boutiques began opening along the street. All were getting ready for the tourists or work-bound locals to stop in for a meal, a quick cuppa, or pick up some last-minute item they’d need for the day. Lights flicked on, steel security gates were lifted, and racks and tables full of various and sundry goods were pulled out onto the wide sidewalk.

Spike stopped at a street vendor who was selling traditional tamales and breakfast gorditas – tortilla ‘pockets’ stuffed with your choice of scrambled eggs, cheese, chorizo sausage, onion, and chili peppers. _‘Buffy’d get everything but the peppers… and extra on the queso,’_ he thought, knowingly. _‘Let me have her peppers, I’d wager. Get the mutt a tamale… pffft!_ Three _tamales for that bottomless pit.’_

Spike laughed to himself, thinking how annoyed the Slayer was with him for feeding Cujo. Buying the furball burgers and fries and feeding him from the table. Silly girl didn’t know he’d won the big dog’s favor with bits of beef jerky and chunks of cheese from her own sodding pantry. Accused him of ruining her dog. He shook his head, still laughing lightly. Was the bloody point, wasn’t it? Tame the bleedin’ demon-hunting hound to keep from becoming dog chow himself?

“Señor?” the vendor questioned, looking at Spike and motioning to the hot food on offer.

Spike set the cage down on the pavement and dug into his pocket, coming out with enough to cover a light breakfast. “Gimme a gordita… the works… and extra on the queso,” he requested, not bothering with Spanish in this town, so close to the border, he was sure the vendor understood him.

As he handed the man the money and accepted the paper-wrapped, over-stuffed tortilla, Spike was still smiling. He took a bite and nodded in appreciation to the vendor – everything was ‘perfecto’. The tortilla was done just right – not too doughy or too brittle. Inside, the eggs were fluffy, the sausage had a zesty tang which the sweet onions balanced, the peppers were perfect points of spicy heat, and the cheese… The cheese was heavenly. Sharply robust and perfectly melted, spread over the whole of the stuffing in equal measure, a small taste of rapture in each bite.

“Missing out, you are, Slayer,” Spike muttered to himself as he picked the cage back up and started walking again. “Sell your soul for this, I reckon,” he continued, taking another bite. “Or at least give me a bloody adorable pout.”

Spike ran his tongue over his lips, wondering if the Slayer’s bottom lip was as delicious as it looked. He suddenly froze, the gordita halfway back to his mouth, and gave his head a little shake. “ _Annoying_ pout!” he corrected hastily. “Damn woman was nothing but annoying… including that sodding pouty lip!”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Tossing the empty paper wrapper from the gordita in the general direction of a garbage can, Spike stopped in front of a newsstand. He looked up at the sky, the tingling down his spine telling him that the sun would be up soon. Needed a paper for Dru – she did love reading the obituaries – they always sent her pixies into paroxysms of joy. But he also needed to get on tracking down those rat-condos – and maybe something else for her, something that would really lift her mood.

He stood on the sidewalk, looking over the selections of the little open-air shop, trying to think what else to bring his dark princess. His eyes landed on a vase of fresh, red roses. Dru loved roses, especially blood-red ones. Always delighted in pulling the petals off, she did. Said they screamed so nicely, all lyrical, like a funeral dirge.

Right then, a paper and a rose and then he’d be off to track down a few more tasty rat-treats. He began to grab the items for Dru when a stand of colorful postcards caught his eye. Spike wandered over to the bright, cheerful cards and absently set the cage down at his feet. He began twirling the postcard display, pulling out different ones that caught his eye and looking them over. There was one of a stylized sun goddess which reminded him of the ‘Golden Goblin’ of Sunnydale, and another showing a street scene with food vendors, like the one with the heavenly gorditas, front and center, one that was a kind of cartoon map of Mexico with all the major landmarks drawn in, and on and on.

Spike mentally composed messages for each one, alternatively smiling, smirking, and curling his tongue behind his teeth as he did. Were there any postcards about cheese? Silly bint loved her cheese! Bloody hell! There was! It was a cartoon of a fat, over-stuffed rat in a sombrero leaning back against a huge block of cheese that had a good bit eaten from it. Below it was the caption, ‘¡Viva la queso!’

Spike laughed. “Bloody brilliant,” he muttered, checking the eastern horizon over his shoulder again as he absently spun the display stand to the last side.

Balls! How long had he been mucking around here? He looked down at his handful of postcards – ten or twelve at least – that he’d saved out, messages mentally composed for each and every one. “Bugger me,” he growled, scowling. What the fuck was he doing? Still had rats to get for Dru and he was screwing around with postcards for the bleeding Slayer! He needed to get going! As it was, he’d be lucky to get back to Dru with just the two rats without getting sizzled.

He angrily shoved all the postcards back into one slot on the stand. Wasn’t sending the sodding bitch more postcards, for fuck’s sake! What the hell was he thinking? Clearly, he wasn’t!

He hurriedly bent to pick up the cage at his feet when another postcard caught his eye. A mischievous grin curled his lips as he pulled it out. “Gotta get that one…” he decided, an evil glint sparkling in his blue eyes. “Be bloody perfect, that will.”

Spike looked around for the vendor, who was helping another customer. He slipped the card into his pocket, quickly plucked one of the red roses from the vase, and snagged a paper from a stack on the ground. With vampire speed and grace, he snatched up the cage of rats and was nothing but a blur of black and platinum as he darted away from the stand. His jubilant laughter trailed behind him as he wove through the other foot traffic and street vendors, the message for the card already floating through his mind, his fingers itching for a pen. 

“Wonder if it’ll make her pout,” he mused to himself, a vision of that adorable… errr… _annoying_ bottom lip dancing through his mind as he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_A few days later, Sunnydale…_ **

Buffy wondered who this Von Hauptman guy was and how the Glove of Myhnegon had gotten into his crypt in the first place. Giles hadn’t been his normal over-sharing self with the details. Probably because of ‘Gwendolyn Post, Mrs.’, Faith’s new Watcher and overall Council tattletale, showing up and shattering his stiff upper lip.

Oh well, it didn’t matter, really. Come to crypt. Wait for demon. Kill demon. Get glove. Make Giles happy.

Another Tuesday night in Sunnydale.

Faith had been MIA for a while, apparently breaking in the charming Mrs. Post. Buffy gave even odds on who would be breaking who – Faith with her authority figure issues, or Mrs. Post with her overbearing, stick-up-the-ass authority. Either way, it left Lagos, the demon dude who apparently wanted the glove-thingy, for Buffy to deal with. So, she and her coppery shadow, Spike, waited, crouched behind a marble angel near the Von Hauptman crypt, hoping it would show soon. There could be Bronzing later.

They were not kept waiting long.

Spike spotted Lagos first, his low, rumbling growl vibrating up Buffy’s arm from where she’d been petting him. The Slayer peeked out from their hiding spot, but it hardly seemed necessary, as the demon was paying them no mind at all. Lagos wasn’t that impressive as far as demons went – not too big, mostly human-shaped with just a few extra bits on its face that were more decorative than dangerous.

“You go low, I’ll go high, and we’ll meet in the middle,” Buffy whispered to the dog, who gave a soft chuffing sound of agreement as the demon approached.

Buffy and Spike had just begun their charge when a fourth dark figure leaped down from the top of the crypt they’d been guarding, and landed atop Lagos. Buffy and Spike ended up crashing into each other instead of their target as the demon and its attacker rolled away across the open lawn, then smashed into a headstone.

Luckily, Spike had been going low, so Buffy landed on top and didn’t get crushed under his considerable bulk. Unluckily, their limbs tangled, and they ended up sprawled on the grass for several moments before they could regain their feet. When she turned to the continuing scuffle a few feet away, Lagos had gained the upper hand. He slammed his attacker against a crypt wall with exceptional strength. The impact filled the cemetery with the sound of cracking bones and crumbling cement. It was then that she realized who it was – Angel!

Buffy’s focus slipped as she took an instinctive step toward the downed vampire, who lay moaning and bleeding, crumpled like a rag doll. In that moment she didn’t notice Lagos’ axe being drawn back as he rushed toward her, intent on decapitating the only thing now standing between him and his prize.

Spike took exception to that plan. He let out an ear-splitting bark of warning as the axe swung toward Buffy’s neck in a wide arc, the blade a blur in the air. Buffy’s head whipped around at the sound, in time to see the blade coming right at her, too late to block.

The Slayer jerked back just as the weapon sliced through the empty air where her neck had been a split-second before. Or, almost empty air. A searing, sharp sting cut across the front of her neck, making her cry out. She fell like a stone, landing on her back with a thud, the literal wind knocked out of her with the abrupt impact. Her hands darted up to find a thick line of blood dribbling from her throat, as she fought to draw air back into her lungs.

Not a moment later, the Guardian dog’s eyes flashed with blue-white fire, fangs bared, jaws snapping as he threw himself against the demon’s flank.

The demon hit the ground with Spike coming down atop it, forcing an ‘oof’ of expelled breath from the axe-wielding humanoid. The demon and the dog rolled, each clawing for an advantage on the damp grass. The demon hit Spike with the haft of the axe, drawing a sharp cry of pain from the big dog and giving the demon time get a new, deadly grip on his weapon.

Buffy fought back panic as blood flowed through her fingers, hot and slick, though it wasn’t pulsing or shooting – the blade had missed her jugular and carotid. The fact that she was still conscious and able to even realize that was also a huge clue that no super-important bits had been severed. Calling on all her Slayer experience and the adrenaline surging through her, Buffy scrambled back to her feet, keeping one hand pressed to her throat. Just before the demon’s axe came down in deadly earnest on Spike’s back, she grabbed the handle of the weapon at its midpoint, blocking it from striking, stopping it mid-swing. 

They all struggled for several long, tense moments – demon, dog, and Slayer. Spike’s jaws flashed, ripping and rending flesh while Buffy and the demon fought for control of the axe. Finally, red, demonic blood flew as Spike’s powerful jaws closed over the demon’s throat, teeth sinking in like daggers through Swiss cheese.

Spike growled with fury and satisfaction as demonic bones crunched and splintered in his violent defense of his hooman, transforming him from cuddly puppy to powerful Guardian of the Twilight. Buffy yanked the axe from the demon’s waning grip, stumbling back a step as it came free. Spike whipped his head back and forth in the ancient and honored tradition of predators the world over, only stopping when his prey went limp and lifeless in his mouth.

The command to, “Release!” whispered through the otherwise still cemetery, Buffy’s voice shrill with adrenaline but rough with pain.

Spike’s growl never lessened, his lips remained drawn back from deadly fangs, but he released his hold on the crunchy rabbit, taking a single step back. The axe came down on the demon’s neck the next moment, separating Lagos’ head from his body. Spike huffed out an overtly pleased breath, the blue-white fire in his eyes fading along with his growl.

Buffy dropped to the ground, the axe falling from her grip as she brought both hands up to her throat again, trying to assess the damage and slow the bleeding. Her head was spinning sickeningly, and her vision was starting to tunnel as more and more blood flowed through her fingers, soaking into her shirt. Her limbs felt leaden and weak, her stomach queasy as she collapsed onto her back on the soft grass. _‘No, no, no...’_ was all she could manage to think, refusing to allow her life to flash before her eyes. She was not dying this day. She fucking refused.

Spike was there the next moment, a soft whine burbling in his throat as he gently pressed her hands away from the wound with his nose. His tongue was warm and rough against her skin as he gently tended to the nasty gash. Buffy’s eyes closed in relief and her heartrate started to return to normal as the wound began to slowly heal beneath the mystical dog’s attentions.

By the time Spike finished a few minutes later, the bleeding had completely stopped and all that remained of the wound was an angry red line across the Slayer’s flesh and a shirt soaked in blood. She pushed herself to sitting and wrapped an arm around her companion. “Thanks, buddy,” she murmured, running her blood-stained fingers over her throat, checking it. It was only the second time Spike had done that for her, and this was by far and away the worst of the two. “Remind me to send a fruit basket to Uriah for letting you stay with me.”

Spike made a happy chuffing sound and gave her cheek an affectionate nuzzle, before turning his attention to the downed demon. As Buffy pushed herself back to her feet and tried to catch her breath and stop the ground from tilting beneath her boots, the dog sniffed at the head, then the body of Lagos, before raising a leg and dousing the corpse in a victory shower.

Buffy rolled her eyes at the gesture, but said, “Good boy, Spike,” as she reached out and patted his gore-stained head.

Spike’s massive mouth dropped open in a doggie grin, his tail wagging happily. His tongue lolled goofily as long globules of bloody saliva dripped, streaking his chest and legs all the way down to his paws with gore. He looked up at her with gruesome affection only a Slayer could appreciate.

“That doesn’t mean you can shake on me,” she warned, wagging a finger at him. “Remember, ten feet away before you shake.”

“Whoof!” Spike replied, loud enough to dislodge a shower of leaves from a nearby ivy vine, and free some of the red, sticky spittle that had been dangling from his lips.

A painful moan from a few feet away reminded them of the other demon in the cemetery. Buffy picked up the axe before both she and Spike headed over to where Angel lay, woozy but awake. Spike’s growl returned as they neared the vampire who had managed to push up to a seated position, his back against the cracked wall of the crypt.

“What the hell was that?” Buffy demanded, her voice raspy, but feeling stronger by the minute.

“Trying … to… help,” Angel gasped out, wrapping an arm around his torso, cradling his ribs as if they were broken.

“Help? _Help?!”_ Buffy demanded, incredulously. “You just about got us both killed! What the hell, Angel!? Are you even serious right now?”

He looked up at her, brown eyes slightly glazed. “I saw the demon… thought…”

“No, you didn’t think!” the Slayer growled in a good approximation of the dog at her side. “What are you even doing here? Were you following me?”

“Not following, was just out… saw you… saw the demon… thought…” he stammered, trying to push up to his feet.

Buffy grasped his upper arm and yanked him up, drawing a gasp of pain from the brunette. “You thought, you’d what? Do me a favor? Build up points to offset the giant hole you dug yourself by going to Giles and blabbing?”

“It’s not like that,” he defended.

“Good! Because that would just be childish, kinda like tattling,” she fumed.

“I just want to help,” he replied sheepishly, half bent over and still clutching his ribs.

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes, her anger suddenly morphing into a plan in her mind. “You really want to help?” she asked.

“You know I do.”

“Giles gave me an assignment… punishment for going off with Spike without telling him. Will you help me with it?” she wondered.

“Sure,” Angel agreed immediately. “What is it?”

“A comprehensive report on the life and times of the master vampire Angelus,” Buffy informed him, waiting to see how he’d try to wriggle out of this. “It would be tons faster if I could just get it from the vampire’s mouth instead of trying to piece things together from old Watcher diaries and musty codices.”

Angel gawped a bit, his mouth opening and closing like a landed guppy before saying, “Uh, I guess… but… why?”

“It’s something the Council wants for… I don’t know, old Councily things. You know how they are with documenting completely meaningless ancient history,” she lied, shrugging.

“Oh.” Angel’s brows furrowed, a sure sign he was thinking furiously, despite his calm outward demeanor.

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Buffy offered with a shrug. “I doubt I’ll have any time for much socializing until I get done. Faith may even have to take over patrols, so, you know, don’t expect to see me for a while.”

Angel’s face fell. “Oh,” he repeated, clearly getting the hint – no help, no seeing of Buffy. “Well, okay then, yeah… sure.”

Her brows went up in surprise. Could it really be that easy to get him to talk? Just threaten to hide away for a while? “Great! I’ll have my people call your people,” she quipped.

Angel looked confused.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “How about I just come by one night and we can get started?”

“Sure. You know where I am,” he agreed, pushing off the crypt wall.

_‘When you aren’t out being a big buttinsky and almost getting us killed,_ ’ she thought, turning away. “I have to get something out of this crypt, then I’ll help you get home,” she said aloud, turning away from him.

She’d gone about ten feet when Angel’s voice rang out in warning, “Spike!”

The single word, combined with Angel’s tone, evoked a vivid image of the leather-clad vampire in Buffy’s mind. She imagined the next sound would be a snarky reply, some rude insult combined with an expletive hurled at Angel. Or maybe he’d just address her in that cocky way that is so uniquely Spike as he sauntered into view, ‘ _Slayer’_. 

Buffy spun around, eyes searching the graveyard, her heart leaping, breath caught painfully in her throat. A small bubble of disappointment burst in her chest when she realized Angel was talking to her dog – something he rarely did, choosing to ignore him most of the time. Angel hadn’t been issuing a ‘vampire alert’ or castigating his grand-childe; the annoying blond hadn’t magically materialized in Sunnydale.

‘ _Of course, he hadn’t,’_ she chided herself with an eye roll. _‘He’s in some warm, sunny country with the love of his unlife… which was just stupid. Why would vampires go to the sunny south for winter? Shouldn’t they go north where the days are shorter and thus, less chance of sun poisoning?’_

“Spike!” Angel repeated, pulling Buffy from her musings as he backed away from the dog. “Don’t you dare! I mean it!”

But it was too late. Spike’s whole body had begun rotating, nose to tail, in a massive, cleansing shake. His shiny hair seemed to be Scotchgarded, any grossness simply sliding off the long stands in a fine spray of blood, saliva, and small bits of Lagos, which covered Angel from head to foot.

Buffy stifled a laugh and began walking again, her hand rubbing at her healed throat. _‘Good boy, Spike. Good boy.’_

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy sighed in relief when she and Spike finally made it home later that night. It had been a productive night overall, if exhausting. She’d gotten Angel to agree to be interviewed about the life and times of Angelus. They’d managed to destroy the Glove of Myhnegon. And they’d gotten rid of one fake Watcher, ‘Gwendolyn Post, Mrs.’

And neither she nor Spike had died – no thanks to Angel and his clumsy attempt at… chivalry? Or, more likely, his attempt to get back in her good graces. Buffy was still conflicted about Angel. Everything that Spike-the-vampire had told her about him warred with the ‘first love’ affection that, despite everything, still held a place in her heart.

In the end, there had been two casualties sustained. The first was Giles’ hard head, which had been cracked open by the evil ex-Watcher. The second was Angel’s house, where the final battle had ended up after said evil ex-Watcher followed Buffy, Spike, Angel, and the glove back to Crawford Street. The wicked bitch had even convinced Faith to fight on her side… at least for a while.

Buffy turned her attention back to the present and the big dog who most certainly was her friend. “You had a pretty good night, didn’t ya, boy?” Buffy asked, pulling stakes out from places never designed to hold them and dropping them into a basket by the front door. “Saved me, killed Lagos…”

Spike let out a little “Woof,” as his tail began wagging in earnest and he leaned heavily against Buffy’s legs.

“Okay, _we_ killed him, but I probably wouldn’t have been nearly as helpful without my head,” she agreed, scratching his ears with one hand as she picked up the stack of mail from the table with the other. “Then we got Mrs. Post – I think you got about seventy percent of the credit on her, since you ripped her arm off while Faith and I drew her fire,” she continued, scanning the mail absently.

“Whooof!” Spike agreed as his tail began wagging so hard his entire body was swaying back and forth.

“Holy shit,” Buffy breathed, her brows furrowing even as her heart began doing ecstatic cartwheels in her chest. “He sent another one.”

Spike made an interrogative sniffling sound as he lifted his nose up to check what she had. As soon as the scent hit him, he began wagging his tail again, slamming it against the table leg with teeth-rattling force. “Whoof!” he exclaimed in excitement as he started squirming and twisting his whole body in a happy doggie dance.

Buffy laughed at his antics, letting the dog’s joy merge with her own, which was bubbling like liquid sunshine in her chest. Spike sent another postcard! One was… well, unexpected, though she figured even Spike could stick with a plan for two days. But it had been over a week now, and he’d sent another one? He was still thinking about her! Still hating her just as much as she was hating him.

This one was from Chihuahua, Mexico and it, predictably, pictured a cute, female Chihuahua on the front. The long-haired little dog was all dressed up in bright colors, clearly ready for a night on the town… for a _fiesta_ , Buffy corrected herself mentally. Buffy ran her hand over the glossy surface, musing, ‘ _Spike’s hand had been right here. His strong fingers had held it, curled around it.’_

She remembered those fingers, comforting and capable, curling around her hip, offering her support when her friends had confronted her, hurling accusations and innuendos, upon their return from rescuing Dru. A little shiver ran through her with the memory, the cool weight of his fingers a tingling phantom on her skin. _‘Of all the postcards, he picked this one out just for me. He was thinking of me the whole time.’_ The thought of it all gave her a thrill, making goosebumps prickle her skin. 

Buffy was still smiling, her heart fluttering and light, when she turned it over to read the message – the message he’d written just for her.

Her expression clouded. Her smile fell. Her heart sagged. The goosebumps stopped tingling her skin. A stab of disappointment squirmed around inside her, a pout ready to form on her lips as she announced deadpanned to the dog, “It’s for you.”

Spike stopped dancing and looked at her, his expression curious, his brown eyes glittering.

“It’s addressed just to you,” Buffy reiterated flatly, pushing back the little green-eyed monster that had awakened inside. The blond creep was thinking about _her dog_ , not her. Composing messages to _her dog_! Picking out postcards for _her dog_! Stupid vampire.

“See?” she said to Spike. “ _Cujo Summers, the bloody big furball._ ’”

“RRRawrf!” Spike prompted, tilting his head to the side.

“Okay, okay! It says, ‘ _Don’t forget your promise – big bad to big bad – keep the girl safe. No one kills the Slayer but me._ ’”

“Whoof!” Spike barked happily, the full-body wag and happy dance commencing again.

Buffy couldn’t help but smile at the dog, her jealousy and disappointment over Spike sending _him_ a card waning slightly, though the damn vampire could’ve at least put his little coded message, _HYYF –S_ , to her on there with it. Not like there wasn’t enough room.

“Big, dumb jerk,” she muttered with a pout.

Buffy’s eyes drifted over the message again, the full force of the words hitting her square in the belly, stealing her breath. A band tightened around her chest. The fear that had been masked by the adrenaline of the fight with Lagos squeezed around her, making it hard to draw in air. Her free hand went back to her throat as she turned to look into the mirror beside the door. If she’d been a millisecond slower, or if Spike’s warning had come just that much later, she’d be dead now. It could’ve easily been her blood soaking the cemetery grass, her head separated neatly from her shoulders.

Would Spike have peed on her like he did Lagos? No, she decided, he’d have been devastated. Just like she would be if anything happened to him. 

Her legs wobbled a little and she dropped down, kneeling on the foyer floor, throwing her arms around the big dog. Buffy buried her face into the long, lion-like mane around his neck, clutching him to her tightly. He could’ve died tonight too – died protecting her. That thought felt like a scorching brand pressing against Buffy’s heart. Spike had become so much more than a family pet. He was even more than just the best slaying buddy ever. He was her friend, her confidant, her co-conspirator, her source of comfort and provider of warm-fuzzies. Strange as it was to say, he understood her like no one else did… well, no one except maybe his namesake, who seemed to have an uncanny talent for reading her moods and thoughts, even all the way from Mexico.

“I love you, Spike,” she murmured into his rich fur, hugging him even tighter. “Thank you for keeping your promise.”

Spike whined softly, his wild tail wagging slowing to a sedate ‘ _whooshing’_ , as he nuzzled against her neck. Buffy squeaked, her shoulders rising to block the cold-nose attack, which only made Spike up the ante and begin delivering wet, enthusiastic doggie kisses to her skin.

“Argh! Spike kisses! Kisses of Spike!” she yipped, ducking away. Spike’s joy returned as he felt Buffy’s mood lighten, and he doubled down on the kisses. In the end, Buffy was laughing, her arms raised over her head in surrender and defense. “Get me some mouthwash! Get me some bleach!”

“Whooof!” Spike replied, sitting down in front of her, panting happily, his eyes bright with delight.

“You’re such a goof,” Buffy taunted lightly, scratching his ears playfully. “What would I do without you?”

“Wooof!” he offered, shaking his head vigorously, rattling his tags, before settling his warm gaze back on her.

“Well, I guess that means we’re stuck with each other,” she interpreted, standing back up, before remembering the postcard in her hand. She looked down at it thoughtfully, the weight lifted from her heart – it was her Spike’s specialty. It seemed like the evil vampire Spike wasn’t too bad at it either.

“So, guess the picture is for you too – she’s a hottie,” Buffy observed, showing Spike the picture of the little dog.

“WHOOOF!” the big dog agreed enthusiastically, his tongue lolling out and mouth hanging open, reminding Buffy of a cartoon character – eyes bursting with hearts, and tongue rolling out all the way to the floor.

She laughed again and ruffled his fur vigorously, which just made Spike wriggle and waggle more. “C’mon,” she encouraged, trying to get past him to the stairs. “We’ll hang it up over your bed … like a pinup girl.”

“RrrrrraaaaaaRRRRFFFF!” the big dog concurred, nearly knocking Buffy down as he bounded up the stairs ahead of her.

“Even from another country, you’re totally ruining my dog,” Buffy complained to the postcard, but she couldn’t stop smiling. “Good boy, Spike.”

* * *

**Storyboard**

(If you have downloaded the chapter and don't see the photo, [you can find it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2kpYYzd))

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50810867126/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! More soon!


	3. CHO-CO-LA-TE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra sloppy doggie kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means a lot to me!
> 
> This chapter beta’d by my wonderful friends, Holi117 and Paganbaby. Pre-read by TeamEricNSookie. Wonderful banners by PaganBaby. Thanks so much to all of them not only for catching my mistakes but for their support and encouragement! All mistakes are mine cos I can’t stop fiddling.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50792069356/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**_Mexico._ **

“Are we nearly there?” Dru asked – again – as they cruised through the touristy parts of Mexico City, looking for a suitable hotel. Spike had a decent wad of pesos he’d pickpocketed off a German tourist the night before, so he could actually pay for a nice room, something that Dru would like, something fit for his princess. And, tomorrow night, he could nick some more, give her all the finest accommodations… or at least less-ratty ones. And this way, they wouldn’t be drawing any unwanted attention to themselves by having the former occupants bloating in the corner. Spike had had quite enough unwanted attention for a while. Between the mobs in Prague, running across not just a Slayer he couldn’t best but Angelus in Sunnydale, then the Chaos Demon and a gypsy who’d kidnapped Drusilla in Rio, and finally a giant sodding bear who tried to rip his literal guts out – he was more than ready for a nice, quiet trip, sailing happily under the radar.

“No, Dru, we aren’t nearly to bloody Brazil,” Spike sighed in exasperation. “Thought we decided to bounce about Mexico for a bit, eh? Remember the brochures? Said you wanted t’ see the sights.”

Dru pouted, folding her arms over her chest. “ _You_ decided,” she grumbled petulantly.

Spike blew out a breath and ran a hand back through his hair in exasperation. “You bloody well said—” He stopped, clenching his jaw, his head twisting tightly on his neck as he reined in his temper before beginning again more calmly, “Said you wanted to dance on the beach in Cancun and Puerto Vallarta – wanted t’ connect the sodding oceans or some rot,” he reminded her, picking up the stack of brochures and maps that filled the seat between them and waving them at her. “Said the bloody pixies wanted to run with the jaguar spirits of Chichén Itzá.”

“Oh, yeah,” she conceded finally, still pouting.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Got plenty o’ time to get to Brazil. Got no schedule to keep, nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to get there.”

“But I want to go to Brazil. You left Miss Edith there all alone,” she continued.

Spike blew out another breath and pulled into what looked like a likely hotel. “Was in a bit of a hurry, wasn’t I? Didn’t have time to pack the whole kit n’ kaboodle. Had to save you from the bloody gypsy git.”

“He was nice… a proper gentleman,” Dru contended haughtily.

“He drugged you, starved you half to death, and threatened to dust you!” Spike retorted.

“Yeah…” she agreed, a dreamy smile curving her lips. “Charming, he was.”

“Charming my aching arsehole,” Spike snarled beneath his breath.

“When shall we be in Brazil?” Dru asked again. “Miss Edith needs her mummy. She’s quite frightened all alone.”

“She’s not alone – got all the other dollies with her,” Spike argued. “Probably bossin’ them about by now, making ‘em lick her boots.”

“She doesn’t wear boots,” Dru pointed out.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Her feet, then.”

“Ooo, look at the flowers, my Spike,” Dru cooed, her eyes going wide as he parked the car alongside a wide expanse of bright red geraniums. “They’ve been dipped in blood and sing such pretty songs.”

Spike snorted and shook his head, giving her an indulgent smile. That was his darling Drusilla, always seeing and hearing beautiful wonders in the everyday world. It was one of the things he loved most about his dark princess. “Sun’ll be up soon, don’t wander off,” he advised as he got out of the car.

“Oh, I shan’t… it’s so lovely here,” she trilled, her eyes closing as she began to sway to the dulcet choir of the geraniums.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy could hear music. And singing. Why was there music and singing? Buffy did a mental check, assuring herself that it was, in fact, the right day and that she was in the right place. She looked down at Spike, whose head was tilted at an odd angle, fluffy ears raised, listening. Okay, so it wasn’t just her.

She pulled a stake out from her waistband and started down the steps that led to Angel’s walled garden on silent feet, her dog just behind her. Something was definitely with the wrongness. She’d never heard Angel play music before, like… ever. Never known him to listen to a radio even. And was he singing? Or was that someone strangling a seal?

Buffy slipped up beside the open doorway without making a sound. The doors had been destroyed in the fight with Gwendolyn Post, as had a lot of things in what Buffy thought of as Angel’s living room. The doors were gone, the glass cleared away, and, as she peeked inside, she noted that the rest of the room had been put to rights, as well.

Angel looked fine – perfectly normal – as he moved around the area lighting candles… and, yes, singing! Or, well, trying to sing, she supposed. It was some kind of opera music, and Angel was absolutely not hitting those notes. Not the low ones, not the high ones, not the in-between ones. She thought of the singalongs in the car with Spike and what a rich, velvety singing voice he had. It was something you’d want to roll around in naked. Angel’s voice made her want to move to Siberia. Clearly, the ability to sing didn’t get passed down in vampire bloodlines.

She shook all that off and took in the rest of the room. There must’ve been a heck of a sale at The Pottery Barn, the room was filled with candles! White pillars and tapers of varying heights covered every flat surface, including much of the floor, the table, and the mantle. There was also a fire going in the fireplace, which was weird since it had been one of the hottest Decembers in years.

The problem with Angel looking ‘fine’ moving around lighting three stores worth of candles while listening to what Buffy now decided was definitely an opera, was they were supposed to do the first ‘interview with a vampire’ tonight. This looked like… well, it looked like he was waiting for a date. Had he forgotten that she was coming and made plans with someone else? Was he dating someone?! Already?!

A bright spark of green flame burst into life in her belly, making her hands curl into fists and her throat close up with a flash of rage. After all he’d put her through, after all she’d done for him, after nursing him back to health and keeping him a secret from her friends and Giles?! He just moves on? Poof!

Buffy clenched her jaw and forced herself to calm down, uncurling her fists. _‘Who cares if Angel has a date? Not me. This is me with the total lack of caring. It’s not like we can be together… There lies badness and soul-losses. But… move on quick, much? And is dating_ anyone _a good idea with his condition?’_

God… Was everyone dating but her? Oz and Willow, Xander and Cordy, Angel and whatever opera-loving candle-freak he was expecting. Great. That was just great. And what had _she_ been doing? Waiting for stupid postcards from a stupid vampire who was, of course, also paired up with the love of his stupid life.

The coppery shadow next to her leaned against her leg and nuzzled the hand where she held the stake, reminding her of his presence. She sighed. Of course, she didn’t really have anything to complain about. She was living with a younger man – a very hairy younger man who had a propensity to drool and eat off the floor.

She sighed and tucked her stake away, turning to leave as silently as she had come. She was drawn up short by Angel’s voice calling, “Buffy?” as he appeared in the open doorway.

She turned around, giving him an apologetic smile. Why was _she_ giving _him_ an apologetic smile? They’d had an appointment – she was there, right day, right time – he was the one breaking it! Why was she always the one apologizing? Buffy shook that thought off with a literal shake of her head.

“I, uh… I guess you’ve got plans,” she stuttered, waving a hand at the fire-hazard inside. “We can do the interview another night.”

“What? No!” Angel corrected her, coming out into the moonlight. “I mean… my plans… they’re with you.”

Buffy’s brows went up, her gaze flicking to the glowing room behind him which reminded her of the death scene in the ‘Romeo + Juliet’ movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. So _not_ a comfort.

“Um,” she began, not sure what to say next, the last of her jealousy fizzling out. She swallowed and looked back at Angel, meeting his eyes. “This… this isn’t a date,” she reminded him. “We aren’t, you know, _dating_.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agreed, slipping to the side and inviting her in with a wave of his hand. “You made that pretty clear when you ran off with Spike—”

“I didn’t run off with Spike!” Buffy exclaimed in exasperation, not accepting the invitation to enter. “It was a _mission_.”

“And defending him when he was being an ass, when he was _defying_ _me_ , was that part of the mission? Was putting him – _my grand-childe_ – under _your protection_ part of the mission? Was breaking my knee part of the mission?” he demanded, his jealousy flaring as well.

The big dog stepped forward, ready to put himself between the brown rabbit and his hooman, a low warning growl beginning to rumble in his chest. Buffy stepped in front of him, stopping his advance, but the snarl continued, dark lips pulled back from brilliantly white teeth, as the Slayer and vampire kept arguing.

“I didn’t break your knee,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Just popped a few tendons. Look, never mind, this was a bad idea,” Buffy declared, turning to go.

“No, wait. I’m sorry. I just… thinking of you with Spike, it makes my skin crawl and… and I was just worried about you.”

“I’m not _with_ Spike,” Buffy insisted. “In any sense of the word. There was no ‘with-ing’ of any sort, form, or fashion.”

“I know… I’m sorry,” the vampire apologized again. “Look, can we just try this again? Come in… sit down, have a snack.”

“This really isn’t a social call,” Buffy reminded him. “You said you’d answer my questions.”

“I know, I just thought we could visit a little first. You know, talk?” he suggested, waving her in again.

“Talk,” Buffy repeated as she and Spike stepped past him into the room. The dog’s eyes narrowed, giving the vampire a nasty look as he passed, but Angel didn’t seem to notice. It was easily ten degrees warmer in here with the fire and the candles, and Spike immediately began to pant from the heat. “Okay, talking is good. Such as talking about yo— about Angelus.”

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Angel agreed, coming in behind her. He placed a hand on the small of Buffy’s back and began to guide her gently toward the couch. “We’ll do that. I just thought you could use a break. Just a little while off from everything. I got sodas and some snacks… See?” he urged, picking up a box of crackers.

“Ginger Ale and Triscuits,” she observed, noting the lack of anything to go on the crackers, like, say, cheese. She wanted to comment on that, and also wanted to ask, _‘In all the time we’ve spent together, when did I ever drink a Ginger Ale? Never. Not once. Ginger Ale is for, like, upset stomachs or something.’_ But she didn’t. Instead, Buffy said, “Great. Thanks. But, um, I really need to get to work on this project for Giles.”

“I know! We will,” the vampire assured her as he motioned for her to take a seat. “I thought you’d enjoy…”

“A break,” Buffy filled in, repeating what he’d said earlier, as she sat down. Spike sat next to her on the floor, carefully avoiding the candles with this tail. “With… opera.”

“It’s Romeo and Juliet performed by The Metropolitan Opera,” Angel revealed.

Buffy’s mouth formed an ‘O’ as she nodded her head, looking around and taking everything in again as the music and voices continued their stirring performance in the background. She looked back at Angel, who had taken a seat on the couch next to her – not right against her, but close enough to reach out and touch if she – or he – wanted. She put her bookbag down between them, as if it were a forcefield that could be deployed in case of a photon torpedo attack.

“We studied that in World Lit,” the Slayer revealed. “You do know it’s a tragedy, not a romance, right?”

Angel shrugged. “Can’t it be both? Like us?”

_‘Are we?’_ Buffy wondered. A romantic tragedy? Or is it more like Macbeth, with the manipulation and backstabbing? ‘ _Did he use me to break the curse or did he really love me?’_ Were the two mutually exclusive? Did it really matter anymore? Unfortunately, yes. It mattered if he could do it again, if he could use another Slayer next year, or next century, to do the same thing. Plus, Buffy just really wanted to know. 

“I’m gonna go with a hard ‘no’ – romance and tragedy are unmixy,” Buffy answered after a moment. “I can testify to the utter lack of romance in killing someone you love. Give me Harry and Sally, Jack and Diane, Buttercup and Westley…”

“Who?” Angel interrupted.

Buffy sighed and waved it off. _‘Spike would know… well, maybe not Buttercup and Westley.’_

_“_ We are _not_ Romeo and Juliet,” she insisted. “And I didn’t come here to eat Triscuits and listen to opera. If you aren’t going to help me, then I’ll just go and start researching on my own,” she said, standing up.

“No… don’t go! I’m sorry, I just thought...” Angel began, reaching for her hand. He shrugged helplessly and gave her his version of sad puppy-dog eyes, which honestly reminded her so much of Angelus that she had to look away.

_‘Spike_ so _does the sad puppy-dog eye thing way better.’_

“Sit down… ask your questions,” he invited, still gripping her hand.

Buffy looked around. “For those of us without enhanced night vision – which I want to point out is grossly unfair – can we turn on an actual light?”

Angel nodded and stood up.

“And lose the tragic music?” Buffy continued.

Angel sighed, but nodded again, heading off to do as she asked. The music ended with a scratching across a vinyl record coming from another room, which made Buffy and Spike both cringe. When had Angel gotten a record player? And what other records did he have? Was it wrong that she knew more about Spike’s taste in music than Angel’s? Buffy rolled her eyes. A month or so ago, the answer would’ve been a resounding ‘Yes!’, but now… not so much. Spike had been right – she and Angel had never been friends.

Angel clicked on a couple of lamps as he came back to the couch, leaving all the candles and the fire burning, as well. Poor Spike was suffering, panting and drooling all over the floor at Buffy’s feet. She’d have to get one of those collapsible bowls and bring water with her next time. “Do you have a bowl I can use to give Spike some water?”

“A bowl?” Angel asked as if he’d never heard of such a thing.

“Yeah, like… a bowl… or a bucket or a pot?” she clarified.

“Uh, maybe… in the kitchen,” he suggested, heading that way.

Buffy rolled her eyes. The disparity between Angel and his grand-childe continued to grow like Kudzu along the railroad tracks. On their road trip, Spike-the-vampire had actually ordered water for his furry namesake anytime they got food, and he’d thought to grab the dog’s bowls from the kitchen, even though Buffy had forgotten them. And Angel didn’t know what a freaking bowl was? She sighed, of course he knew what a bowl was, he probably just didn’t want Spike drinking out of one of priceless bits of Ming China or something.

He came back with an old, stained, slightly cracked plastic bowl that was barely big enough for Spike to get his tongue in. “Thanks,” Buffy said, taking it from him and setting it down for the big dog, who immediately began lapping up the water, spilling more than he actually got in his mouth.

“Sure,” the vampire replied. To his credit, Angel didn’t actually say anything, he only scowled at the growing puddle on the floor as he took his seat again.

“Okay, let’s get started,” Buffy began as she sat back down, this time a bit further away from Angel, and pulled a new leather-bound journal from her bookbag. Giles had given it to her for just this purpose. She opened the book to a page where she’d written down some questions she wanted to begin with and grabbed a pen from the bag. “I know your first name is Liam, what was your last name?” she asked first, looking up at the brunette.

“What difference does that make?” he wondered, furrowing his brow and sitting forward as if he was about to bolt from the room.

“Well, none, I guess,” Buffy admitted. “I was just trying to be, you know, Watcher-level nitpicky and get a good grade. I don't want Giles to make me to do something even more boring than this. Like write a report on Romeo and Juliet.”

Angel scowled. “Next question.”

Buffy sighed. “What did Liam do before… as a human? Did you have a job or go to school or…?”

“Next question.”

Buffy blew out an impatient breath and looked down at her notes. “Okay, so, you’re from Galway, Ireland…”

“How do you know that?” he interrupted sharply.

“Uh… books. Contrary to popular belief, I can read, you know,” Buffy retorted.

“You researched me?” Angel demanded.

“Well, yeah. It’s kinda what we do when a new demon comes to town – we research them. Same concept when your vampire boyfriend loses his soul,” she pointed out.

Angel sighed. “Right,” he muttered, dropping his gaze to the flickering candles that covered the coffee table.

“So,” Buffy continued. “If you’re from Ireland, why don’t you have an Irish accent?”

“I, uh… is that important?”

“Not really, I just wondered. I mean, Spike and Dru still have theirs…”

“Spike?!” Angel scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That isn’t even— You aren’t falling for that accent of his, are you?”

“Falling—?” she huffed indignantly. “There is no falling! Why do you keep thinking there’s falling?”

“It’s what he does,” Angel explained. “The whole Cockney bad-boy thing… girls fall for it.”

“Like the whole tortured soul, Anne Rice thing?” she shot back, her eyes flashing with impatience.

“I _do_ have a tortured soul!” Angel insisted.

“Yeah? Well, you also have weird privacy rules and control issues,” Buffy declared. “I didn’t do as you wanted, so you tattled to Giles. Spike didn’t bow down and lick your boots, so you tried to dust him! While we were in a truce, by the way! I gave my word! How can I do anything if my word as the Slayer means nothing?”

“I didn’t make any truce with him,” Angel declared. “He’s my _family_ – he’s supposed to show me proper respect.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the Slayer, that should earn some respect, too,” she pointed out.

“Well, excuse me for worrying about you and trying to keep you safe. And you think _I_ have control issues,” the vampire grumbled.

“I’m the Slayer. I get to have control issues! It’s my Calling,” Buffy asserted.

Angel snorted and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by Spike’s panting and the crackling of the fire. Finally, Angel looked back at her and asked in a resigned voice, “Can we please stop talking about Spike?”

“I wasn’t talking about Spike,” she pointed out, trying to keep her annoyance in check. She enunciated slowly, keeping her voice even, “The question was, ‘Why don’t you have an Irish accent?’ Or is that information protected under the ‘Angel Privacy Act of 1997’, too?”

Angel’s lips compressed into a hard line. For a moment Buffy thought he still wasn’t going to answer, but finally he said, “I don’t have an accent because of all the time I spent with Darla – she was American. Also because of all the time in the States later. Was just easier and… well, honestly, there were lots of people in ‘The Colonies’ that didn’t have the highest regard for ‘ignorant bogtrotters’. It was easier to blend in and move around without it.”

Buffy took a deep, calming breath and pushed her annoyance and frustration aside, getting back to her inquiries. This was more than she’d gotten out of him since they’d met. She couldn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of the mission.

“Can you still do it? Can I hear it?” she wondered. She wasn’t really sure why it mattered or why she wanted to hear it, just that she’d thought about ever since learning where he was from. It was silly, but hearing it would be closure of a sort… maybe?

“No,” was the short, curt reply.

“C’mon, Angel… Does it sound like Sean Connery?”

“Sean—” Angel started, then blinked at her. “He’s _Scottish_.”

“Oh…” Buffy frowned, thinking. Her eyes widened and she held up a finger in an, ‘I’ve got it!’ gesture. “The leprechaun in the cereal commercials!” she announced. Buffy put on her best Lucky accent, and recited, _’Can’t blame ‘em for wantin’ me Lucky Charms! They’re magically delicious!’”_

Spike lifted one ear and whined. Angel stared at her, unblinking, for several long moments.

“Don’t ever do that again,” the vampire requested flatly. The dog huffed out a breath in agreement. Perhaps the first thing the two had ever agreed on.

Buffy rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Spoilsport,” she muttered, looking down at her notes again. “Okay… so, you were turned in 1753. How long had you known Darla before she sired you?”

“Not long,” Angel replied.

“Could you vague that up a little more?” Buffy wondered sarcastically. “A day, a week, a month?”

“Not long,” he repeated. “Is that really important?”

“I just… never mind,” she muttered. “Okay, let’s get to Angelus… sired 1753, where?”

“Ireland.”

“And, from what I read, you… I mean, Angelus, killed his whole family?”

“If that’s what it says.”

Buffy rolled her eyes then leveled her gaze on him. “Did Angelus kill his whole family? Did Darla help?”

“You’ve got the books.”

“What about the village? They say…”

“Whatever they say… go with that,” Angel interrupted.

Buffy slammed the journal closed. “This is helpful in a way that’s not,” she informed him, clicking her pen closed and stuffing it, along with the journal, back into her bookbag.

“Wait, Buffy…” Angel started, reaching for her again, but she pulled her hand away before he could catch it.

“You said you’d help… this isn’t helping. The only thing I’ve actually learned is the term, ‘ignorant bogtrotters’. Pretty sure Giles already knows that one,” she pointed out, standing up and lifting the strap of the bag over her head so it hung across her body.

Angel stood up, too, moving toward her, but she and Spike were already heading for the door. “Buffy – you have to know this isn’t easy for me,” he admitted.

She stopped and turned around. “Telling me your last name isn’t easy for you? Seriously? You know everything about me, and you can’t tell me your _last name_?”

Angel clenched his jaw, staring at her intently.

“Fine… You won’t have to worry about my ‘ _control issues_.’ I won’t be back,” she declared, turning and stepping out into the garden.

“I’m sorry, I just—” he started again, but Buffy spun around, cutting him off.

“Angel, the Council wants to document dates, towns, kills… whatever, anything else there is, into one Encyclopedia Britannica report on the legendary Angelus. If I can’t get it from you, then I’ll just have to try and piece it together myself from the diaries and stuff. I asked those other questions cos I thought they’d be easier to start with than, ‘How many people did you kill in your village?’ Clearly, I was wrong.”

“Okay… just… let me get used to the idea,” he requested. “I haven’t shared anything with anyone in so long, it just… makes me uncomfortable.”

“Fine. Let me know when you get comfortable,” she retorted, turning and heading for the stairs, Spike on her heels. “Until then, I won’t be around,” she said again as she began jogging up the steps to the street level. “We aren’t Romeo and Juliet.”

Angel sighed, looking back at the romantically lit room, at all the flickering flames and thoughtfully provided refreshments which had done nothing to thaw Buffy’s attitude toward him.

“Hey! You didn’t eat any of the snacks,” he called after her, but she and the dog were already gone.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike set the bags on the small writing table in their room as Drusilla began to explore the small space, as was her way. She looked in corners, beneath the bed, in the shower, under the sink, even moved furniture and opened every drawer checking for lurking Boogeymen. Thus far in their century of travel, she’d only ever found sprites and a few stray elves.

As she did that, Spike pulled a postcard from his pocket that he’d picked up in the hotel lobby. He found the pen he’d started keeping in an inner pocket, and began to scribble a note to Buffy.

“My dark knight sends off little morsels of himself like peppermint candies at Christmas,” Dru said coolly as she continued her Boogeyman search, sliding the dresser away from the wall to check behind it. “They fly away on the backs o’ pigeons, ‘round the moon to melt in the bright sunshine ‘til there’s nothing left.”

“They’re just postcards, Dru, not sending any sodding candies,” Spike asserted, as he continued writing. “Just keeping her off her guard, yeah? Won’t know what hit her next time I lay eyes on the bint.”

“Her sunbeams reach for you, but I shan’t let them snare my knight. Rook takes queen and the kingdom falls,” she muttered moving back over to him. She reached for the postcard, but Spike grabbed it up before she could touch it.

“Give it a rest, Dru – they’re just postcards, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbled.

“With bits of darkness spilled in the ink,” she lamented, reaching for it again. Spike let her take it, his lips pursed in agitation as she read it.

“Satisfied?” he asked, arching a brow at her. “No darkness, no sunbeams, no sodding candies.”

“Would Pinocchio’s nose grow if ‘is heart lied to his head, but his mouth didn’t know?” she wondered.

“Nothing’s lying to anything, you dozy bint!” Spike asserted angrily, snatching the card back from her fingers.

“Then rip and rend and crush the candies! Show your princess that her dark knight still stalks the shadows!” she demanded.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” he started, clenching his jaw. “Fine!” he agreed, ripping the card in two and then in two again and then into smaller and smaller bits until they were barely more than confetti as Dru giggled and clapped her hands gleefully. He let the pieces fall to the carpeted floor, holding up his empty hands. “Happy now?”

“My dark prince…” she purred, fisting her hands in his t-shirt and jerking him forward. Her mouth crashed into his, brutal and demanding, and he returned the kiss in equal measure. They began to move as one, turning in a slow spiral, shedding clothes, revealing smooth, pale skin. Hands roamed, lips burned, and teeth nipped. As they tumbled onto the bed, all thoughts were surrendered to need, to passion, to lust.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Not comin’ out, luv?” Spike asked that night as he got dressed.

Dru was still in bed, pressing random buttons on the television remote and watching the screen flicker and change and sometimes go black before clicking back on. “I’m all floaty and my feet won’t touch the floor,” she hummed dreamily. She stopped changing the TV as children began singing and clapping in time, repeating the words of a man leading the song, “[Uno, dos, tres, CHO! Uno, dos, tres, CO! Uno, dos, tres, LA! Uno, dos, tres, TE! CHO-CO-LA-TE! CHO-CO-LA-TE!”](https://youtu.be/bjIo0oaCgMg)

Dru sat up in the bed and began to sing and clap along with the children, her face awash in giddy innocence.

Spike’s eyes softened as he watched her, a loving smile curing his lips, all anger from that morning gone. “Bring ya something back t’ eat, pet,” he said as he stepped over the colorful bits of postcard that littered the floor. He closed the door quietly behind himself, her lyrical voice following him down the hall, “CHO-CO-LA-TE!”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy needed to let off some steam, so she and Spike headed for Restfield. A fledge or two was always a good way to de-stress. She lifted her shoulders and rolled her head around, trying to loosen up her tight muscles as they made their way through the empty graveyard. Or, as it turned out, not too empty.

“Hello, stress-relief,” she caroled as the first fledge appeared several yards ahead. Unfortunately, it either heard or sensed her, and began to run.

“Oh, a chase!” the Slayer declared with glee as she began to follow. “I can deal with that.” 

The fledge was deceptively fast, and seemed to know his way around the cemetery, ducking behind crypts, leaping over headstones, and crashing through narrow openings in the tall hedges. Buffy and Spike followed, the wind on their faces, their own steps fast and sure.

Spike seemed to know that Buffy needed this, because he never raced ahead of her, just let her set the pace as they trailed after the fleeing vampire. Buffy had started breathing harder, her muscles warming and loosening after the tension of the non-interview with Angel. She even let out a little yip of joy as she vaulted a particularly tall sarcophagus, landing in a forward roll and coming up without missing a step.

The vampire was nearly to the far end of the cemetery, though, and she didn’t want to let him get out into the streets. Too many variables there, not to mention willfully-ignorant eyes that could see her. She’d started to tell Spike to go ahead of her and grab him, when a dark shape came out of the shadows, interspersing itself between her and the fleeing fledge.

Spike let out a bellowing bark and surged forward, slamming into the newcomer and driving it into a granite headstone. Buffy heard a cry of pain from the demon, but knew Spike had it under control. She continued on, putting on a burst of speed and catching the fledge just at the cemetery wall. She drove into him with a shoulder, slamming him face-first into the stonework. Buffy had planned on taking her frustrations out on him, but she heard Spike growling and tussling with the other adversary behind her, so she drew her stake and plunged it into the vamp’s back without even time for a pun.

The Slayer turned, straightened her bookbag, and hurried back to her dog, who was standing over the dark-clad interloper growling intently. His powerful, slavering jaws hovered menacingly over the demon’s throat… a demon she now recognized. “Angel,” she moaned, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. “What. The. Hell?”

“Get this dog off me before I kill it!” he demanded from the ground.

Buffy’s brows went up. “Big talk for someone flat on his back with jaws ready and willing to rip his head off,” she noted, shaking her head. “Release, Spike,” she commanded, though it was said more reluctantly than normal.

Spike backed up, leaving a trail of drool from Angel’s neck all the way down his shirt, his trousers, and ended with a lovely gob on his shiny shoes.

“How can you not know it’s me?” he demanded, pushing himself up. He groaned, gripping his ribs as he tried to straighten.

Buffy rolled her eyes. This was getting too regular. “How many times do I have to tell you to not interfere with slayage?” she shot back.

“I wasn’t!” he said, looking around and finally finding a bag he’d dropped. “I was just going to bring you the snacks,” he insisted, leaning down gingerly to pick the bag up. “I didn’t want them to go bad.”

“Pretty sure Ginger Ale and Triscuits have shelf lives that rival Twinkies,” she pointed out, taking the proffered bag from him. He looked confused, but Buffy didn’t explain her joke. “Is that it?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” the big vampire replied, wrinkling his nose as he tried to wipe the dog slobber from his neck.

“Then don’t come looking for me again unless you’re ready to talk about Angelus,” she advised, turning and beginning to walk away.

“Buffy… I… you can’t mean that,” he prodded, taking a step to follow her.

She stopped and looked back at him. “Stop following me. Go home. When you’re ready to discuss the past, then we can talk. Otherwise, leave me alone. Even Spike knows that ‘no means no’,” she pointed out, before turning her back on him and stalking away.

“The dog?” he called after her.

“Him too.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike unlocked the hotel room door, juggling cups of hot cocoa along with a heavy bundle on his shoulder, and hurried in. Wouldn’t do to be seen delivering Dru’s meal. “Dinner, pet,” he said as he turned and quickly got the door closed behind him.

When he turned back around, he froze, all the borrowed blood in his body draining away, as if he’d been gutted. Which is exactly what had happened. His throat closed up and his unbeating heart died just a little more as he took in the scene. Dru. On her knees. Straddling a dark-skinned local, riding him with a slow, sensuous undulation of her hips, her modest breasts swaying with the motion, her smooth, porcelain skin a sharp contrast to the hairy, mocha-toned man beneath her.

She turned then, a slow, languid movement, her hips never stopping their movement, each rise revealing the man’s thick, dark erection, coated in her juices. He was moaning beneath her, but it sounded pained rather than pleasurable. Puncture marks leaked blood from his neck, his chest, his arm, and likely more places Spike couldn’t see, bright red pools of it staining the white sheets beneath him. The shredded uniform of a porter, or perhaps a room service worker from the hotel lay on the floor next to the bed.

“My Spike,” she breathed dreamily, running her hands up her body to cup her breasts, her fingers closing on her taught nipples as she groaned and bucked harder against her lover, making him gasp. “I found the CHO-CO-LA-TE. Isn’t he lovely? Furry all over, like my other deadly boy,” she purred, lowering her hands to run it through the thick curls covering the man’s chest and abdomen. “And he tastes of fluffy clouds and devil’s food. Have a nibble, my Spike. I saved you some.” 

Spike tried to speak, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t allow it. He swallowed and tried to find a drop or two of blood to help form his words. “I – I thought you weren’t going out,” he finally managed, still standing frozen by the door.

“I needed CHO-CO-LA-TE,” she excused childishly, her body still taking the man, who was barely conscious, unmoving beneath her, yet still hard. “May I keep him?”

Spike clenched his jaw and dropped her meal off his shoulder. The semi-conscious man crumpled into a pile on the floor, letting out a low moan. “No, you sodding well can’t. And I brought you bloody ‘CHO-CO-LA-TE’,” he growled, pronouncing the word like she’d been, like they had on the song earlier that night. He lifted the tray that held two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in demonstration before setting it down on the table. “And dinner,” he continued, waving a hand at the man he’d dropped.

Dru wrinkled her nose. “Don’t want leather an’ gristle, nor beans an’ cream,” she sniffed derisively.

“Yeah, well, I wanted t’ stay in this hotel a bit longer, but seeing’s as how you’ve decided to sup on the help, I reckon that won’t happen either,” he growled, taking two long strides up to the bed. He gripped her by the shoulders hard enough to bruise and pulled her off the man. “Did you learn nothing from that mob in Prague!?” he demanded, shaking her. “You don’t hunt where you sleep, for fuck’s sake, Dru!”

Dru growled and snapped at him, yanking free of his grasp. “I follow the pixies!” she declared angrily, glowering at him. “And they wanted CHO-CO-LA—”

“Yeah? Good job they did in bloody Prague, eh?” he yelled, interrupting her. “Have your fucking hairy chocolate, then,” he sneered, getting ready to turn away from her, but she grabbed his belt, stopping him.

“Come play, Spike,” she invited, her hands already unfastening the buttons on his jeans. “He’s ever so warm and sweet,” Dru purred, “But only you know how mummy needs to be hurt.”

Spike scowled at her, grabbing her hands and pulling them free of his jeans. “I’m going out,” he informed her, spinning on his heel, rebuttoning his pants at the same time.

A pout formed on Dru’s lips a moment, but no longer. She shrugged and turned back to her plaything, climbing back onto the bed. She leaned over him and slapped his face a couple of times until he opened his eyes. Glazed as they were, she caught his gaze and began swaying like a snake charmer, her fingers pointing into his eyes, then into hers. “Be... in my eyes. Be... in me,” she hummed, still swaying above him.

Spike hefted the old man he’d brought up off the floor and back onto his shoulder, tears welling in his traitorous eyes. He hazarded a glance back over his shoulder at the sound of bedsprings creaking. The man was suddenly animated to the point of mania, propped up on straight arms atop Dru, his cock driving into her cunny like a rutting pig as she giggled and crooned beneath him.

Spike closed his eyes, wished he hadn’t looked. Wished he couldn’t hear the man’s grunts, or Dru’s moans, or the wet squelch and slap as he took what was Spike’s. What should be Spike’s. What had never been Spike’s. He clenched his jaw and yanked the door open, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle the walls. It didn’t help. He could still hear it.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale:_ **

Buffy was still fuming by the time they turned onto Revello Drive. “He totally lied,” she groused to Spike. It was a refrain she’d said repeatedly on the walk from Restfield. “He wasn’t going to answer any questions! What did he think? A few candles and some Canada Dry, and I’d totally forget why I was there? That I’d fall back into his arms and eat dry crackers in his bed?

“And that crap about bringing me the snacks? Total bullshit. I guess he thinks if he asks enough, I’ll change my mind. Which is totally not happening. But, goddammit! How am I gonna figure out if Spike was right about the curse?”

Her furry friend whined and nudged the bookbag slung across her chest.

“I was bluffing. There isn’t enough in those books about Angel to fill a… a really small container that doesn’t hold much,” she admitted. “Yeah, there’s stuff about Angelus, but I really need _Angel’s_ info – from after he was cursed. I just didn’t want him to know that, thus, the starting from the start.”

Spike sighed. Buffy did too.

“Plain Triscuits and Ginger Ale don’t really spell ‘true love’,” she muttered to herself, rolling her eyes as she stomped up the steps to 1630. “The more I find out about Angel, the more afraid I am that Spike was right.”

The dog looked pointedly up at her, lifting his brows, making the hair above his eyes twitch and quiver.

“Oh, don’t start with me, buster. The whole ‘I told you so,’ thing is beneath you,” she asserted, opening the door.

Spike sneezed, rattling his tags, and padded off toward the kitchen. Buffy sighed and took her bookbag off, setting it on the table by the door along with the bag of food Angel had given her. She dropped her stakes into the basket beneath the table and picked up the mail. It only took a moment for her to find it, the bright, glossy colors drawing her eyes and fingers to the postcard.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50817442676/in/dateposted-public/)

It was a map of Mexico, only instead of roads and most of the cities, it had drawings of foods and buildings and even people from the various regions that made the area famous. There were avocados and tequila and chili peppers, cocoa and burritos and queso. There were pictures of folk dancers and a mariachi band, of butterflies and a pyramid, of churches, prize fighters, and masked wrestlers. Buffy smiled at it – now she could follow where he was, get an idea of how far he’d traveled, and –

_‘Not ‘he’,’_ she reminded herself dourly. _‘’They’. Drusilla and Spike... ‘They.’’_

Buffy rubbed her eyes tiredly. It seemed like everyone was a ‘they’ these days. Everyone but her. And, apparently Angel, but that was a good thing. She sooo didn’t need to find out if his curse could be broken by sharing soda and crackers with any random girl.

Buffy shook off her melancholy and looked back down at the postcard, letting her smile return. Spike may be a ‘they’, but he was still her friendliest enemy and he was still thinking about her. Just knowing that made her tummy feel fluttery. Which was wrong. And bad. And it should totally stop doing that. But it never listened to her before, why should it start now?

She turned the card over and snorted out a laugh. “Really, Spike? To my _mom_?” she asked incredulously. “How lame is that?” She shook her head, still smiling as she read his note aloud, _“‘Had a cuppa hot cocoa today. Made me think of you. No marshmallows, but had chili peppers. Bloody brilliant! You should try it. Take care! –S’”_

Buffy shook her head, chuckling. Spike, the soulless Slayer of Slayers, her sworn frenemy, had cocoa and thought of her mom, had even remembered the marshmallows. Angel, the souled one who purportedly loved her, managed to find two of the least appealing foods ever to try and woo her. What’s wrong with this picture?

Buffy’s smile widened and that quivery feeling in her stomach rose into her chest as she got to the very bottom of the card. Crammed in beneath the note and her address he’d written, _‘PS. Slayer, HYYF –S’_

“Hate you too, Spike – you strange, strange vampire.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike came back. He always came back. He cleaned up Dru’s mess. He cleaned up Dru. He got rid of the body. He made sure it wouldn’t rise. He packed their things. He moved them across town. He put her to bed. He left her there. But he’d come back. He always came back.

The hotel bar wasn’t officially open at nine a.m., but that didn’t matter if you had a bit of dosh. He sat in the corner with the bottle of tequila and looked at the postcard. Buffy’d like it, he thought, with all the drawings on it, the burritos and nachos and queso. Even showed Chihuahua and Mexico City on it – she could see where he’d been – and Chichén Itzá – she could see where he’d be later. That gave him an oddly tingly feeling in his gut. Not fear of the Slayer, but a warmth, almost as if she could watch over him through the postcard, like a… like a friend. Cos that’s what they were, right? More or less? Friends? Until one killed the other, anyway.

“How bloody pathetic are you?” Spike mumbled to himself. “Only sodding friend is your mortal enemy? Wanker.”

He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, turning the card over and considering what to write. Pathetic or not, it’s all he had, and Dru could sod off with her candies and sunshine bollocks. She just shagged a hairy chocolate bar six ways from Sunday, so yeah, he could send the Slayer a bloody postcard. Nodding confidently to himself, Spike went back to pondering what to say.

“Should I tell ya that Dru killed a bellboy t’day? Said he tasted of devil’s food and clouds,” he muttered bitterly, tapping the pen on the table. “She fucked him t’ death. Not as much fun as it sounds, that.”

He scowled at the empty expanse of white paper and took another swig of tequila – forgoing the salt and lime – then another inhalation of nicotine. “Brought her sodding chocolate. Cocoa with chilis in it – spicy and sweet. Bloody brilliant, it was. Didn’t have to shag the git, she didn’t. I took care of her good and proper, always do – anything she wants, Spike gives it. Dunno what she wants from me… never enough. Never …”

Spike stopped talking, blinking his eyes to keep the shimmering tears from falling. He took another drink. “Don’t reckon you want to hear that,” he reasoned, setting his cigarette in the ashtray, and leaning forward, preparing to write. The corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile as he began addressing the card, _‘Joyce Summers.’_ He snorted, wondering if that would brass the Slayer off or just make her laugh. Either one would do.

_‘Had a cuppa hot cocoa today. Made me think of you. No marshmallows, but had chili peppers. Bloody brilliant! You should try it. Take care! –S’_

Spike stared at it for several long moments, taking another drink, another hit of nicotine. “Sod it,” he swore, adding, ‘ _PS. Slayer, HYYF –S’_ into the small space left at the bottom.

He sat back, his smile widening, thinking of the fiery blonde, a force of nature with flashing green eyes and a pouty lip that would bring empires of warriors to their knees. He thought of how she blushed when he teased her, how she laughed when he said something that tickled her, how she burned with righteous indignation, and how she kept her word.

His smile faded and the little glimmer of light that had sparked in his chest faded back to cold, hard ice. What kind of world was it where he could trust the word of a Slayer over his own sire? Over the woman he loved more than anything? Who he’d sacrificed for? Who he’d protected and taken care of? Who he’d healed and rescued more than once?

Spike blew out a long breath and shook his head. He lifted the bottle in salute, mimicking touching it to another. “Hate you, Slayer,” he toasted, lifting the bottle to his lips.

It burned like liquid sunshine all the way down.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Story Board**

**(If you've downloaded this and can't see the photo, you can[find it at this link](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/50817538527_0b5b88f627_c.jpg).**

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50817538527/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**References:**

Death scene from Romeo + Juliet: <https://youtu.be/KJZLcsAmLbM>

CHO-CO-LA-TE song: <https://youtu.be/bjIo0oaCgMg>

Chili Hot Chocolate recipe: <https://foodjamming.com/chili-hot-chocolate/>

Lucky Charms Commercial: <https://youtu.be/E-OYybJUR_I>

Twinkies: A common urban legend claims that Twinkies have an infinite shelf life, and can last unspoiled for a relatively long time of ten, fifty, or one hundred years due to the chemicals used in their production. A homage to the unlimited shelf life urban myth appears in the film WALL-E, where the title character's pet cockroach is shown eating its way into the cream filling at one end and emerging out the other none the worse for wear. -Wikipedia

The idiom ‘six ways from Sunday’ means in every way possible, having done something completely, having addressed every alternative. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It looks like posting on this will be on Saturdays and Thursdays, so more soon!


	4. Amor Vincit Omnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra sloppy doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, you have no idea!
> 
> Some dialogue borrowed from ‘Helpless’. There is going to be some Español in the coming chapters. There isn't a lot and I tried to make it very basic (from my mostly-forgotten Spanish in high school) My hope is that it is easy enough to understand based on what is happening or what Spike is thinking, even if you don't hablar.
> 
> This chapter beta’d by my wonderful friends, Holi117 and Paganbaby. Pre-read by TeamEricNSookie. Wonderful banners by PaganBaby. Thanks so much to all of them not only for catching my mistakes but for their support and encouragement! All mistakes are mine cos I can’t stop fiddling

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50791321588/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**_Mexico._ **

Spike wasn’t nearly pissed enough when he returned to their room, but the bar had opened and the tourists were too loud and too bloody happy. Once again, when he entered the room and his eyes found Dru, he froze.

She looked up at him from where she knelt on the bed, her bare body pale and lovely as ever, her big eyes confused. “They don’t speak to me…” she told him in that childlike way of hers.

Spike sucked in his cheeks, his lips pursing into an angry line. “Of course, they don’t! They’re Trivial Pursuit cards, not your sodding tarot cards!” he growled, moving across to the bed where she had the small squares laid out as if trying to do a reading, a stack of them still in her hand. “And they’re bloody well _mine_!” he declared, gathering them all up from the bed and snatching them from her grip.

Dru began to whine like a kicked puppy and curled up into a little ball in the center of the bed.

Spike sighed, blowing out a long breath, his emotions ricocheting from furious to repentant in a blink. He was hurt, angry, a bit drunk, but not drunk enough, and tired. So very tired. But one thing even his wounded heart couldn’t stand was to scare his dark princess. She should never be afraid, never cry, never cower or whimper. Sometimes, he was a bad, bad man.

“Sorry, pet. Didn’t mean t’ shout,” he cajoled, sitting down next to her. “Just …” He didn’t want to say he was afraid that she would destroy them, rip them to shreds, like she’d made him do to the postcard the previous day. He’d been through them all probably ten times since nicking them from Buffy’s bag, but that wasn’t the point. They were _his_. He’d stolen them from the Slayer fair and square. “They aren’t for seeing,” he said at last, straightening them back into a neat stack in his hand.

“What are they for?” she asked, sniffing and sitting up.

“It’s a bit of a game, ya see?” Spike explained. “Questions on one side and answers on the other. If ya can answer the questions properly, then ya get a point.”

“Are the points tart and sweet, like honeyed lemon bars?” Dru asked, becoming interested.

Spike snorted. “Maybe… never know unless ya get one,” he teased, glad to see her taking an interest in something that he liked.

“May I try, please? May I?” the brunette begged, getting back to her knees and bouncing excitedly on the bed.

“Right, then… let’s see,” Spike began, looking down at the card in his hand. “Alfred Nobel, father of the Nobel Peace Prize, made his fortune with the invention of which powerful tool?”

He looked up at her, waiting. Dru chewed her lip, her eyes far away and unfocused. “No fair using the pixies,” he warned, arching a brow at her. “That’d be cheatin’.”

Her brows furrowed, an innocent scowl crinkling her lovely features. “Cheaters run away with the races,” she pointed out. “Like my Spike plucking cards from the clouds.”

“True enough, I reckon…” Spike admitted, shrugging. “Alright, what is it then?”

Her smile returned, her face growing animated and excited. “Rocks!” she announced eagerly, flinging her arms into the air as if tossing confetti.

Spike arched a brow. “Rocks? How do ya invent rocks, pet?”

Dru shrugged, pouting. “Is that not right? I did so want a sweetie.”

Spike looked back down at the card, shaking his head. “Let’s try another,” he suggested. “Who was the first major author to read his own work in public for profit?”

Dru’s face again clouded with concentration and she sat quietly for nearly a full minute, thinking.

“Used to enjoy the one he told ‘bout the rotten little pickpocket, you did,” Spike hinted.

Dru’s eyes went wide and she squealed in delight. “Angelus!”

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, not sodding Angelus,” he moaned. “Dickens! Charles bloody Dickens! Angelus never wrote any bleeding books.”

“He should’ve,” Dru insisted sulkily. “So many wicked tricks and traps and beautiful agony… it makes me trembly all over,” she cooed, her eyes closing as she wrapped her arms around her bare torso and swayed, humming to herself.

Spike rolled his eyes and stood up, looking around for the rubber band that had kept the cards together, but not finding it.

“Do I get my point now?” she asked as he gave up and wrapped the cards up in a t-shirt and put them back in his bag.

“You get fewer points than the sodding Slayer,” he muttered under his breath. ‘ _Not even any fun to take the piss outta you about it. Can’t take a sodding joke, or toss back a properly-good insult, or even pitch a good hissy fit without going too bloody far… not like Buffy.’_

Spike clenched his jaw and shook himself, sending thoughts of the Slayer out of his mind. Didn’t do any good to compare Dru to the Slayer – was like comparing apples to refrigerators. He was just still hurt and angry over the chocolate man. Dru was Dru… the love of his unlife. May not be able to take a joke like Buffy, or hurl insults and quips, or blush like a nun in a brothel, but she could see the stars on the ceiling, and dance to music only she could hear, and she needed him and maybe even loved him… in her own way.

He turned around and gave her a weak smile. “We’ll get ya a point later, pet. Don’t have any with me just now.”

“Can we play a new game? I’m ever so bored,” Dru asked.

“Why don’t we see what’s on the telly?” he suggested, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. He flopped onto the bed, stretching his legs out as he leaned back against the headboard, still fully clothed, boots and all. He stiffened when she curled up against him, cozy as you please, as if she hadn’t just gutted him only a few hours ago.

Not moving or even wrapping his arm around her, he clicked the channel changer, flipping past news reporters and cooking shows until he hit on a Spanish-dubbed broadcast of ‘The Price is Right’. A smile returned to his face, remembering watching it with Buffy and how she cleaned his clock as they played along. Cheeky chit won every sodding bid!

“I’d ever so like to count his wrinkles,” Dru said, sitting up and peering at the TV more closely. “They’re likes rings on a tree, one this year, one the next. How many do you reckon there are?”

“I dunno, do you count ‘em with his dick hard or soft?” he grumbled.

Dru’s eyes went wide with wonder. “May I try both? It’d be a frolic an’ a romp!” she declared, turning in the bed and swinging her leg over Spike’s prone body. She began rocking her hips against him, pressing her clit against the rough fabric and hard buttons of his jeans. “I shall ride him until his wrinkles melt like bitter snowflakes at Carnival.” She stopped moving suddenly and looked down at her childe. “I do so miss Brazil. When shall we be there?”

Spike huffed out a breath and lifted her off, tossing her onto the empty bed next to him, not noticing her look of indignation at the treatment. “We’ll be there when we get there,” he rumbled, standing up, his mood turning again, fickle as… well, as Drusilla. “We bloody well decided to travel about Mexico for a bit. How many times do I have to remind you?” he demanded, as he started pacing in agitation.

Dru pouted and flung herself flat on her back in the bed. “I don’t like it here,” she sulked. “There’re no candies or balls or proper masquerades.”

Spike clenched his jaw in frustration, stopping his trek across the carpet to pull out his cigarettes and lighter. _‘Should’a brought a few bottles of tequila with me,’_ he thought dourly, lighting the smoke. He looked down at the brochures, fliers, and maps that littered the table as he drew in the nicotine and waited for it to calm his frayed nerves. One pamphlet in particular caught his eye, and he pulled it from the jumble.

A slow smile spread over his face as he turned and showed it to his petulant sire. “Dru, luv,” he rumbled, stepping over toward the bed. “How would you fancy a ballet?”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50833696961/in/dateposted-public/)

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy stood alone on the balcony in the Bronze, leaning on the railing and looking down at her friends on the dance floor. Couples. Couples. Couples. Everywhere she looked there were couples making googly-eyes at each other, stealing kisses, and holding hands. It was depressing.

She looked down at the postcard in her hand from the ‘Ballet Folklórico de México’. There was a beautiful Mexican dancer pictured in a dazzling dress, the skirt flaring around her in a kaleidoscope of vivid colors as she twirled. The Slayer found herself staring at the intricate design and floral patterns on the dress and the almost-blindingly bright colors. It would be amazing to see that dancer in motion, see those colors come to life. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50832524808/in/dateposted-public/)

As the music changed to yet another slow tune – another couple’s dance – she turned the card over and read Spike’s message again. Her heart twisted in envy, and maybe a little jealousy, each time she read it, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from roving over the words, picturing it all. A romantic meal by candlelight with whispered endearments and quiet laughter, a champagne toast to destiny and eternal love, a slow dance to a sultry, Latin beat, a vibrant ballet shared with the love of your life, full of brilliant colors and lively dance, then soft kisses, reverent touches, a slow, beautiful joining beneath a sky full of glittering stars. 

_‘Painted the town red! Dining, dancing, and a ballet fit for a princess, all topped with a romantic shag beneath the stars. Amor vincit omnia. HYYF –S’_

“Love conquers all,” Buffy murmured, running a finger over the last of his message. She’d had to look it up – luckily, the Sunnydale High library had an overabundance of Latin dictionaries. “Not so sure about that, Spike,” she continued with a sigh.

“You look nice tonight.” The male voice from just behind Buffy made her jump, the card slipping from her fingers and nearly fluttering all the way down to the dance floor below. She lunged dangerously over the railing and snagged it from the air in a panic, before whirling around to find Angel there, not two feet away. _‘Wow! Great job, Slayer! Let the vampire sneak up on you!’_

“W-what?” she stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of the card in her hand. She quickly stuffed it back into her purse, out of sight.

“I said, you look nice tonight,” he repeated, coming up to stand at the railing with her.

“Oh, this old thing?” she quipped, putting on an air of nonchalance and waving a hand at the silky red party dress. Sequins glittered as she moved, enough to draw the eye down her body, but not so many to be gaudy.

Angel frowned. “Old? I’ve never seen it—”

“Joke, Angel, it was a joke. It’s new. Mom bought it for me as an early Christmas gift. So, thanks,” she admitted, turning back to lean on the railing and look out at the crowd below. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I thought I told you—”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupted. “I’ll… answer your questions.”

Buffy’s brows went up and she turned to look at him. “Really?”

“On one condition.”

She curled her lips into a sneer. “What?”

“You dance with me.”

“I don’t think—”

“Just one dance. That’s all… and I’ll tell you whatever you want about Angelus.”

“You’ll meet me at the school library?” she clarified. “For as many days as it takes?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll make with the truthfulness?”

“Yes.”

“But you want a dance?”

“Yes.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” he agreed, looking back out toward the band to hide the stab of disappointment he couldn’t keep from his eyes. She had to think about a dance – there had been a time when she would’ve flown into his arms on the spot and begun dancing. He sighed, resigned, and waited.

Buffy turned and mirrored him, leaning her forearms on the railing.

“What were you looking at when I came up?” he asked after a time.

“Oh, nothing really,” Buffy replied casually.

“You were pretty intent on it. Good thing I wasn’t Spike, you’d be dinner right now,” Angel pressed.

Buffy’s skin flushed hotly, a picture of Spike ‘dining’ on her in a way that had nothing to do with blood flashed in her mind. Something low in her belly fluttered and tingled with the mental image, making her squirm in place. _Bad Buffy!_

She cleared her throat, refocusing. “Spike could never sneak up on me… he can’t keep quiet that long,” she pointed out, hoping Angel hadn’t guessed she’d actually been thinking about Spike or that the postcard was from him. She didn’t need a lecture, or him running and tattling to Giles again.

Angel snorted, nodding. “Good point,” he agreed. “So, what was it?”

“Just a… postcard from a friend.”

“I thought I knew all your friends, and they’re all down there,” Angel pointed out, waving a hand at the couples dancing.

“This is… uh, an old friend. He moved away.” Not lying. Spike was way old. He was a friend. And he moved away.

“And you miss him,” the vampire observed.

“No – well, maybe, a little,” she admitted.

“More than a little,” he suggested, turning his head to look at her, his brown eyes seeming to see through her casual answer.

“What is that, more of your creepy smell-a-vision?” she accused tartly, turning to glare at him.

Angel shrugged and looked away. “That and the way your heart was fluttering… the way it used to do around me.”

“Stupid vampires,” Buffy muttered, embarrassment replacing the naughty blush coloring her neck and face. She pointedly turned back to watch the couples below. “It’s complicated. He’s got a girlfriend and, also… the away-ness.” _‘And, he’s an evil, soulless vampire who wants to kill me,’_ she added silently. _‘Plus, he’s an annoying pain in the ass and a pig, and I soo don’t want to handwash my delicates on his abs.’_ That was convincing, right?

“Things sometimes change,” Angel pointed out diplomatically.

Buffy snorted softly. “Not with him,” she sighed. ‘ _Which is partly what I like about him – his loyalty and bizarre vampire honor. Call Alanis Morissette, the irony abounds.’_

They both grew quiet, listening to the music for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Buffy asked, “Do you know what it means to ‘paint the town red?’”

“Well, I guess it depends on who’s saying it. For most people it just means to have a good time, get drunk, indulge, party a lot,” he answered. “It supposedly started in 1837 when the Marquis of Waterford and a group of friends over-indulged in a town called Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire. The story goes that they literally painted the town's toll-bar and a bunch of buildings red.”

“I’m guessing it means something else to vampires?” Buffy prompted, her stomach knotting in worry. Had Spike and Dru gone on a killing spree after their romantic evening? She kept letting them go – as if anyone they killed outside of Sunnydale wasn’t her problem. But was that true? Maybe she was responsible. What about all the people Angelus killed after their one-night tryst? Giles said they weren’t her fault. That Jenny and Kendra weren’t her fault, but…

“It can mean the same thing, or it could be a bit more literal,” Angel admitted.

Buffy nodded stiffly, not looking at him. There hadn’t been any blood on the card. Surely, if Spike meant her to take it literally, there would’ve been blood. He’s not the most subtle person in the world. _Ugh_! Until proven otherwise, she was going to assume they’d just had a normal good time with the painting being figurative. Time for a change of subject. “Have you ever been to a ballet?” she wondered.

“Yeah, sure, a few times,” he revealed. “Dru really loved them.”

Of course, she did. Why else would Spike go to a ballet, if not for Drusilla? His princess. That little envious monster inside Buffy kicked her in the stomach.

“Do you like them?” Angel asked, misreading her expression.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know, I’ve never been to one. But I love the ice capades. My dad takes me every year for my birthday… or well, he used to. We missed last year, but he said he’ll be here for my eighteenth, for sure. They do pieces from operas and ballets. Brian Boitano doing Carmen is a life changer. Oh, he doesn't actually play Carmen, but a lot of sophisticated people go.”

Angel smiled indulgently. “Sounds fun,” he agreed unenthusiastically. “Maybe we could try the ice-skating thing again sometime,” he suggested. “That one time got cut a bit short.”

Buffy turned to look at him, her head shaking negatively. “No, Angel. I can’t tell you how much that’s _not_ happening.”

“Because of the guy from the postcard?” he asked.

Buffy snorted. “No, because of all the reasons you already know. We can work together, but we aren’t together-together. We aren’t date-y, or ice-skate-y, or paint-the-town-red-y. We can’t be.”

Angel nodded and sighed, looking back down at the crowd. “Did you decide about that dance?”

Buffy considered, looking from him to the couples below and back again. One dance. One last dance. “Okay, sure. Let’s dance.”

As she preceded him down the stairs to the dance floor, she couldn’t help but imagine Spike beside her, offering her his arm, guiding her to the floor, gallant and gentlemanly. She thought of him pulling her into his arms, his hard body moving with hers in time to the music. She thought of deep, rumbling whispers against her ear and shared laughter, of champagne toasts and flaring Mexican dresses twirling around graceful ballerinas. She tried really hard to not think about the last part of his missive… the making love under the stars. Of his lean, strong body and how his skin would look like living marble in the moonlight. Of his hands on her skin, of his lips and tongue and…

_‘Oh, man! That escalated quickly! I so need to get a life… or at least a date with someone of the non-undead variety.’_

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico_.**

“C’mon, pet, at least try it,” Spike urged Drusilla that night as they made their way to the ballet, holding up a fresh, warm churro for her from a street vendor.

She wrinkled her nose and turned her face away from him. “It smells of fat conquistadors and pilfered prizes.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “They’re deep fried sweet dough sprinkled with sugar. You wanted sweets earlier… here ya go.”

“Not the right kinda sweetie,” Dru contended as her eyes drifted to a young Mexican boy with dark hair and dark eyes, standing in line with his mother waiting for his own churro. Her frown turned to a hungry grin. “There’s the sweetie for me,” she declared greedily, running her tongue over her lips. “May I have him now, my Spike?”

Spike looked around, shaking his head. “We’re in the middle of the square, Dru, with people all about and _policia_ on every sodding corner. Did you _enjoy_ being beaten within an inch o’ your life in Prague?” he wondered bitterly. “Cos, personally, I didn’t find it all that agreeable.”

Dru huffed and folded her arms over her chest. “You never let me have treats,” she accused, stomping down a foot petulantly.

“Yeah, well, just not fond of getting stabbed with sodding pitchforks,” he retorted, taking her arm and guiding her away from the boy, who had gotten his food and was devouring it with pure, innocent joy. “I’ll get ya a treat later, pet, when it’s safe.”

“Do you promise? A doughy boy with sugar and spice all on his insides?” she pressed.

“Do my best,” Spike placated, taking a bite of the churro. It was delicious! He’d seen people enjoying them with hot chocolate, coffee, and with thick chocolate dipping sauces, too. Buffy’d go wild for ‘em like that, but they were brilliant plain, as well. “You sure, pet?” he offered one last time, but Dru turned her nose up. Spike shrugged and ate hers too.

They strolled, arm in arm, through the square on their way to the opulent Palacio de Bellas Artes and the Ballet Folklórico de México. Dru seemed content, less quarrelsome, now that Spike had promised to get her a treat later. They stopped along the way to listen to and watch the street performers, Spike even dropped a few pesos into jars or guitar cases for the better ones.

There was a small, five-piece mariachi band playing and couples were dancing with lots of undulating hips and sensual energy. “Oh, Spike…” Dru breathed, looking at him hopefully.

“Would you like to dance, pet?” he asked, his eyes glittering with avarice.

“Oh, yes, please…” she replied as Spike took her into his arms and they joined the small crowd, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, in tempo with the music and each other. In the small pause between songs, Dru twirled away from Spike, giggling impishly. Spike couldn’t help but smile at her. She was singular in the world, his Dru – a child, a woman, a devil, a seer of sights beyond his ability to imagine. He couldn’t help but love her, to forgive her of her sins – she was his eternal love.

Spike reached for her hand to pull her back, but she continued spinning away from him, bumping into a man who was standing just at the edge of the dancers, watching. Dru pressed her body to his, still giggling, and pulled him with her onto the ‘dance floor’ as the next song began, leaving Spike standing alone in the center of the dancers.

“Uh, Dru, pet,” he said deadpanned. “What are ya doing, luv?”

“Dancing!” she exclaimed. “I shall dance up into the stars on moonbeams and rainbows!” she declared, urging the man on with the sultry pulse of her body against his.

Spike sighed and moved back, taking the man’s place on the perimeter, a spectator, as the love of his life danced with another. And another. And another. They began lining up for dances with the racy, lithe brunette. The hands of strangers roamed over her body, caressing and pinching, drawing squeals of delight from the vampiress. Spike tried a few times to coax her away, not wanting to make a scene or draw undue attention, but she resisted all his subtle efforts. He finally sat down on a nearby bench, lit a cigarette, and waited.

His temper couldn’t stand watching her any longer, so he scanned the crowd, picking out possible treats from the Happy Meals on display. There were tourists and locals wandering about on the warm, winter night; each had pros and cons to hunting them. The tourists usually weren’t too sure of where they were or where they were going, and if you spoke their language and seemed to know where you were going, they’d follow you blindly. On the other hand, if several were traveling together, like in a tour group or a family, one missing person would cause a ruckus. The same could happen with locals, but not usually as quickly, as families and friends always assumed the best and often waited before reporting someone missing, usually long enough for Spike and Dru to be gone from the area, if not the town, before anyone even started looking. The thing Dru didn’t understand was that it was getting harder and harder to make off with meals, especially in big cities. Cameras were popping up everywhere, and vampires showed up on them just as well as anyone else. It wouldn’t do to have their pictures plastered all over the eleven o’clock news.

Spike picked out two or three candidates as his eyes roamed over the square. He had skipped over one youngish blonde girl who was dancing because she was with a group, but then his eyes darted back to her. A smile curved his lips, her tousled hair and high energy reminded him of the Slayer dancing in the car seat, and before that, in the Bronze the first time he laid eyes on her. Buffy moved like liquid fire, supple and dazzling, a cauldron of sparkling energy. He imagined her in his arms, moving with him to the music – it was easy to do, they’d fought enough for him to know how she felt, how she moved, how she breathed. Her heat would surely scorch him, her body against his would leave him boiling, and her laugh, joyous and pure, would undo him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, shaking his head and looking away from the golden-haired girl as he forced the image of that fireball of Slayer from his mind. “She’d sodding stake you if she knew what you were thinking, you daft git… and Dru’d claw your eyes out.” He shifted his focus back to his sire, who was still dancing with yet another man… who couldn’t bloody dance. 

“Brilliant, dining and dancing are completely buggered. Let’s hope the ballet fares better,” he grumbled, lighting another cigarette. He looked around at the big tower clock at the end of the square. The ballet would be buggered too if they didn’t get going soon. He dug in his pocket and came out with a handful of bills in varying denominations, a plan in mind. He sauntered over to the band, catching the trumpet player’s eye with the dosh.

When the man sidled over to Spike, expecting a request, Spike said, “Take a sodding break, tomar pausa,” and shoved the cash into the man’s hand.

The musician looked confused a moment, as if he was trying to think of a song called, ‘Tomar Pausa’. Spike rolled his eyes. “Tomar un descanso,” he clarified, making a slashing gesture with his hand across his neck. “[¿Entiendes?](https://www.spanishdict.com/translate/%C2%BFEntiendes%3F?langFrom=es)”

“Si, si!” the man assured him, looking down at the pile of cash and nodding enthusiastically.

“Brilliant,” Spike muttered as he walked back to the edge of the ‘dance floor’ and waited. The music ended abruptly right in the middle of the song. When it was clear it wasn’t starting back up right away, the crowd began to disburse.

“Have a good time, pet?” he asked Dru as he intercepted her, taking her elbow proprietarily.

“Oh, yes! Spike, it was ever so merry!” she replied breathlessly, unaware of the sarcasm dripping from his words.

“Glad t’ hear it,” he grumbled, guiding her toward the huge, ornate building that housed the ballet.

“Is my Spike not having fun?” she pouted, looking over at him.

“Sure I am. It’s a sodding laugh riot watching you dance with half the gits in the bloody country. What more could a bloke ask for on a date with his girl?”

Dru’s expression turned to a moue. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah, well… thought wrong, luv,” he complained as they neared the front steps of the Palacio de Bellas Artes. They were fashionably late, most of the other patrons having already gone inside to their seats. Spike had actually bought the tickets, not finding any way to reliably steal them. Of course, he nicked the cash he used, so it all worked out.

The Palace of Fine arts was an imposing building, on a scale and level of ornate opulence with something much, much older, such as European cathedrals. The exterior façade was made of Italian Carrara marble and featured cherubs and sculptures representing music and inspiration, among others. At the entrance of the theatre, there were bronze mascarones – faces whose function was originally to frighten away evil spirits so that they would not enter the building. The roof covering the center of the building was made of crystal and depicted the muses with Apollo. The art and majesty of the building itself was grand on a scale rarely seen in North America.

Drusilla was enthralled.

Spike felt supremely pleased with himself as she ‘Oohed’ and ‘Awed’ at every sculpture, mural, and stained-glass masterpiece. Her hands were never still, twirling through the air as if touching each element of the building, speaking with the spirits living within its walls. Bloody hell, he could’ve just brought her here to visit the empty building, didn’t even need the sodding ballet. But there was a ballet, a folk ballet, and the pictures in the brochure made it look vibrant and exciting. He hoped so – he’d sat through too many boring, uninspired, and downright ugly ballets in his unlife, but Dru loved them, no matter the quality, so…

“C’mon, pet, got us a box all to ourselves,” he encouraged, as he took her elbow again and began to escort her to their seats with the help of a porter, who directed him to the ‘Palcos’.

“It’s so very clever,” she gawped, her eyes still roaming over every inch of the lavish space. “And it tastes of rubies and lightning.”

“Glad you like it, pet. Think you’ll enjoy the dancin’ and whatnot, too,” he continued, finding their box and guiding her inside.

“Oh, Spike,” she breathed, stepping up to the railing and looking out over the gallery and stage below. “It’s made of starlight!” she declared, looking at the ‘curtain’ covering the stage.

“Tiffany glass, actually,” he corrected lovingly. He could see how she’d think it was made of starlight – it was stunning. The ‘curtain’ was a mural created from nearly a million pieces of colored glass depicting two volcanos in the center of a Mexican landscape. It was the only one of its type in any opera house in the world, according to the brochure.

“May I have it?” she wondered, looking back at him with hopeful eyes.

“Don’t think it’ll fit in our bags, luv. Bit hard to nick something that weighs twenty-four tons,” he replied, smiling. “Maybe I can get ya a bitty one in the gift shop.”

“Oh, yes! Please!” she enthused, clapping her hands together gleefully, as the house lights dimmed and everyone quieted, ready for the show.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50833384767/in/dateposted-public/)

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Dru was floating on air by the end of the performance, the pixies giddy and fluttering on dragonfly wings. She’d been entranced, utterly spellbound, by the dancers and their vibrant costumes. Spike, too, had to admit it was one of the most brilliant shows he’d ever seen, but watching her childlike joy and rapture with it was even better. He loved making Dru happy, it healed very wound she inflicted on his heart, melted every shard of black ice. 

“The peacocks and hummingbirds danced with rainbows, my Spike,” she said dreamily as they headed down to the gift shop so Spike could nick a few baubles for his ladylove. She twirled around gracefully, Spike keeping a light hold on one of her hands as she danced around him in elated bliss. “I should so much like to dance with the rainbows, my Spike. May I? May I, please?”

“Not this time, luv,” he cajoled. “Maybe come back again and see, yeah?”

“Oh, yes! That would be delightful,” she agreed happily.

In the gift shop, Spike had to release her hand as he prowled through the crowd, looking for trinkets that he thought Dru would like and slipping them into the capacious pockets of his duster. She seemed perfectly happy to wander through the shop, as well, picking up trinkets and dancing with them, keeping the eyes of the staff on her and off him. But, when Spike had finished his perusal, pocketed all of his selections and turned to go, she was nowhere in sight.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered, looking around outside the shop and still not seeing her waiting for him. He closed his eyes and homed in on her scent and on the blood link between them for a moment, then began walking with a purpose. “Backstage,” he realized after a few moments. “To dance with the sodding rainbows.”

He drew curious looks going upstream against the departing crowd, then polite calls for him to stop from the staff as he pushed through the less ostentatious doors at the back marked, ‘AVISO! Personal Autorizado Solamente.’ There were some exclamations of surprise and protest as he stalked through the backstage prop area, and then down the corridor toward the dressing rooms, but he kept going, following his nose and the faint tingle that thrummed through his blood, drawing him toward his sire. He didn’t stop until he emerged through the ‘Salida de Emergencia’ at the end of a long, utilitarian hallway.

But there, he froze. Everything froze, beginning once again, with his heart. The ice spread in splintering waves out from his chest through his twisting gut, to encompass the whole of him in an agonized arctic rictus.

Dru was there. She was not alone.

The primary male dancer from the ballet was with her. The colors of his costume hanging from his lean, hard body in shreds, the fabric swaying like an undulating rainbow as he pumped against Dru with wild abandon. He had her pinned against the marble wall, her velvet skirt bunched up around her hips. Dru’s pale legs were wrapped around his waist, a stark contrast to his mocha skin and the brilliant hues of silken ribbons that leapt with every jerk of his body.

Spike stood there, transfixed, unable to speak or move or even think, overwhelmed with the knives ripping through him, once again gutting him from the inside out. He watched while the man neared climax and Dru’s fangs extended. Watched as she took him as surely as he was taking her, her body filling not only with his spurting completion but the ruby red liquid of his life. Spike watched as Dru rode him down when his knees gave way, as she drained him even as the last of his jizz pumped into her, his body twitching in ecstatic death.

Spike didn’t notice when someone behind him screamed. He didn’t notice the angry voices, then the frightened ones, or when they turned to warnings and panic. He could only see his love still taking her fill from the dead man, her hips still urging his slack cock to satisfy her, her fangs drawing every last breath of life from him.

When it did register that someone was calling for the police, when a crowd was gathering, he couldn’t help the thought, just for the barest of shameful moments, of letting them have her. Letting them hurt her. Letting them beat her. Letting them punish her. Dru had never been particularly faithful to Spike, but reconnecting with her beloved ‘daddy’ had made her worse, it seemed. The only time he’d had her all to himself had been when she’d been sick and weakened by the crowd in Prague.

_‘Let them beat her, weaken her. Then she’d be mine again… all mine.’_

But it only lasted for a moment, that wicked, traitorous thought. In the next moment, he was in motion, racing to her, snatching her away from the still-trembling body, and dragging her through the growing crowd, parting them with his own demonic countenance and thunderous growls.

Sirens blared and lights began to flash, painting the streets and buildings blood-red as they ran, up one alley, then down the next boulevard, turning corners and ducking behind parked cars. More and more policia converged on the area, their pulsing lights flaring like fire all around the vampires, threatening to corner them. Spike hauled her up a fire escape and they leapt from rooftop to rooftop, just above the deafening klaxons, Drusilla giggling the entire time.

“Get your kit together. We’re going!” Spike ordered as they barreled through the door to their hotel room.

“But I didn’t get to dance with the rainbows nearly enough…” Dru complained, her skirt still mostly bunched up around her waist where she’d been holding it so she could run. The sight and scent of the dancer’s final performance ran down her thighs making the ice in Spike’s chest flare to jealous rage.

“GET YOUR FUCKING KIT NOW, YOU DAFT BINT!” he bellowed, frantically gathering up his own clothes, books, and other miscellany that was scattered around the room.

Dru recoiled, whimpering from his outburst, still holding her skirt with one hand, but didn’t move to comply. Spike growled furiously, clenching his jaw to keep from screaming at her further, and began grabbing her few belongings, as well.

“Let’s go,” he ordered finally, slinging both bags over his shoulders and grabbing her upper arm in a bruising grip.

“But, Spike…”

“GET IN THE BLOODY CAR! We’re leaving!” he demanded, shoving her out the door and down the hall toward the parking lot. He could still hear sirens in the distance, and a helicopter or two had joined the search, their bright lights scouring the city streets for the killers of one of the beloved stars of the Ballet Folklórico de México. Dru whined again, but dropped her skirt and began trudging toward the parking lot. She wasn’t moving fast enough for Spike, though. He came up behind her, once again gripping her arm and dragging her long in his wake.

“You’re a bad, bad man,” she snarled at him, trying to pull free.

“Yeah, well, you’re a cheatin’ whore, so I guess we’re even,” he shot back furiously, his jealously and rage consuming him. He opened the door to the DeSoto and pushed her in, slamming the heavy door hard enough to make the entire car shudder. He did the same putting their bags in the trunk, and then again with his own door. He stopped then and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with trembling hands, trying to calm down. No sense escaping the melee around the arts center only to draw more attention by speeding away like a bat outta hell.

“I’m not enjoying this one little bit,” Dru pouted, crossing her arms over her chest sulkily.

Spike snorted. “Well, reckon we’re even again,” he replied sarcastically, finally feeling calm enough to start the car and head out into the night, away from the city, the opulent building, the brilliant dancers, and the scene of the heartbreak.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike took another long swallow of tequila before wedging the bottle back between his legs. He’d finally stopped at the outskirts of town, feeling sure they hadn’t been followed, and picked up a couple of bottles of the numbing elixir. He sat behind the wheel of the DeSoto in front of a small bodega, letting the liquid burn away his anger and fill the void Dru’s infidelity always seemed to leave. He should be used to it by now, he supposed, but… well, he just wasn’t. Dru was asleep next to him, curled up like a child on the wide leather seat, her head resting on his thigh.

Spike ran his fingers through her hair, doing his best not to breathe in the scent of other men’s colognes and sweat, and the dancer’s pleasure and blood. “What the hell did Angelus do to you, pet?” he asked softly, before taking another swallow of tequila. She never talked much about Angelus turning her, little dribs and drabs about him killing her family, but nothing about what he did to her personally. Part of him wanted to know every detail, another part never wanted to think about it.

He pulled the trinkets he’d gotten for her from his duster’s pockets, a small replica of the stained-glass curtain, which glittered in the low light from the store, and a small doll in one of the bright costumes of the dancers. He wanted to crush them in his grip and grind them into dust beneath his heel, but, looking down at her face, so innocent in sleep, he put them on the seat beside her, so she could see them when she awoke.

Spike closed his eyes and rested his head back against the seat, wishing for someone to talk to, someone who could understand this feeling inside. Dru could never understand what her actions did to him, but it didn’t make it hurt any less, or make him any less angry with her for it in the heat of the moment. He only knew one person who’d had her heart ripped to shreds this thoroughly. Buffy. She’d understand. She’d listen. He knew she would. His eyes flashed open and he leaned over and opened the glove box. Rummaging around a moment, he pulled out a small mobile phone. It was the last thing he’d used Joyce’s credit card to buy before shredding the plastic as he crossed the border into Mexico.

He opened the phone up and pressed the power button. A little jingle played, making Dru murmur in her sleep, then it just sat there silently waiting for him to dial the number. Spike stared at it, his guts twisting with the realization that he couldn’t do it, couldn’t call her, couldn’t show her she was right about Dru. Every time he’d defended Drusilla when Buffy had called her a ‘ho’ crashed back down on him, guilt rising in his chest for accusing his sire of the very same thing only a few hours ago. He tried to think of someone else he could call, a friend to talk to, someone, _anyone_ , who would understand, and came up blank. How pathetic was he? His only friend in the whole bloody world was his sworn enemy? The sodding Slayer?!

He powered the phone off and put it away with a sigh.

The defeated vampire lit a cigarette and had another swig of liquid heat before pulling the last thing he’d nicked from the gift shop from his pocket – a postcard. He couldn’t call the Slayer, but he could do something – he could write. He fumbled for a pen, using the steering wheel as a desk. He considered his words carefully, making sure to not lie – she’d asked him not to lie to her. He’d tried not to… much.

_‘Painted the town red! Dining, dancing, and a ballet fit for a princess, all topped with a romantic shag beneath the stars.’_

He pursed his lips, going over it. Every word the truth – the streets were painted red with the lights from the police cars. He’d dined on churros and tequila, Dru on the rainbow-man. Dru danced with the whole sodding male population of Mexico City. The ballet was brilliant, certainly fit for a princess. And, by Dru’s standards, her shag in the alley with the dancer was romantic… and beneath the stars.

He nodded to himself, pleased with his effort, then added something he hoped was the truth. ‘ _Amor vincit omnia.’_

“Not sure about that last bit, Slayer,” he muttered. “Guess we’ll see.”

_‘HYYF –S’_

* * *

**Story Board**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the pictures,[you can see them at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2krYcHt)**

**[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50833349217/in/dateposted-public/) **

* * *

Notes:

Alfred Nobel invented Dynamite (among other things). Dru’s answer of ‘Rocks’ and tossing her hands in the air was her interpretation of mining using dynamite.

The Palacio de Bellas Artes is amazing! Take a look: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palacio_de_Bellas_Artes> or <https://palacio.inba.gob.mx/>

This video gives a view of the outside and inside of the Palacio at the beginning, and also samples of the dancing: <https://youtu.be/_mkqUffnzjk>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It looks like posting on this will be on Saturdays and Thursdays, so more soon!


	5. Santa Worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra sloppy doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, you have no idea!
> 
> Some dialogue borrowed from 'Amends'.
> 
> Warning for this chapter: Angel will be telling Buffy just what he did to Dru before turning her. It is not terribly graphic -- I will let you draw your own mental images -- but still is disturbing with more detail (including references to rape) than what was given in canon, so just be prepared.
> 
> As always, my undying gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and overall awesomeness!

**_[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50792069356/in/dateposted-public/) _ **

* * *

**_Sunnydale_.**

The twinkling lights of the town on Christmas morning were spread out beneath them, but Angel and Buffy weren’t focused on those earthbound stars. Something Giles called ‘The First Evil’ had come to town this year instead of Santa, and everything had gotten twisted and tattered. Buffy had wanted Angel to tell her about Angelus – well, in some ways she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for. Dreams. Dreams shared with Angel. Dreams of her first love killing and raping, and laughing all the while.

“It told me to kill you!” Angel reminded Buffy as he waited on the hilltop for the sunrise. “You were in the dream. You know! It told me to lose my soul in you and become a monster again.”

“I know what it told you. What does it matter? It’s not ever going to happen,” she assured him, her voice pleading as she watched the sky lighten in the east.

Yes, she’d been angry with Angel lately, annoyed with him, but he _had_ started talking to her, giving her what she knew were abridged versions of the life and times of Angelus. And, yes, she was worried that what happened between them could happen again – not between them, but with Angel and another Slayer, in another time. That Angelus could be freed again. But even with all that, Buffy didn’t want him dust. Maybe she _should_ want that, but she’d killed him once already, and it had nearly destroyed her. She’d grown since then, healed, hardened, and she could honestly say she was not _in love_ with him, she wasn’t sure she even liked him half the time… but he was in her heart. Angel was her first – her first everything. Her first love, her first lover, her first heartbreak – and that kind of connection just didn’t go away. He’d always be part of her – good or bad, what they’d done had shaped her, changed her, become part of who she was, like DNA.

“It matters because I wanted to!” Angel admitted. “Because I want you so badly! I want to take comfort in you, and I know it'll cost me my soul, and a part of me doesn't care. Look, I'm weak. I've never been anything else. It's not the demon in me that needs killing, Buffy. It's the man.”

“Oh! You’re not perfect? You're weak? Everybody is! Everybody fails. But we get back up! We try again! We do better!” she insisted. “Angel, you have the power to do real good in the world, to make amends. But if you die now, then all that you ever were was a monster.”

“Maybe that’s all I’ve ever been!” Angel retorted.

“It’s NOT all you’ve ever been,” Buffy shot back, anger overtaking her fear of the coming sunrise. If he was nothing more than a monster, then what was she? The girl who had loved him? The girl who had felt the world ending when she’d killed him? If he was a monster, what did that make her? “If it was, then killing you wouldn’t have shattered me! If you won’t live for yourself, then live for me. I can’t watch you die… not again.”

“Then go!”

“NO!”

“You can never understand what I've done!” Angel insisted. “What I’ve told you… it’s… God help me, it’s not even a _tenth_ of the pain I inflicted, the lives I took, the damage I’ve done.”

“Then tell me what you’ve done! All of it! Make me understand! I’m not a naive little girl anymore, Angel. I can take the truth. And, when you’re done, if I think all you are is a monster, that there is no good in you at all, then… then I’ll stake you myself.”

Angel stared at her, tears of frustration and fear streaming down his cheeks. “Do you promise?” he asked softly.

Buffy nodded, her own tears flowing in hot rivers down her face, dripping from her chin. “I promise.”

The big man dropped to his knees before her, wrapped his arms around her, and sobbed.

“Angel, the sun,” she warned, trying to pull free, but he just held on tighter, not moving.

“I’m so afraid, Buffy,” he cried against her. “The demon’s always there… it wants out, it wants you in every way… in horrific, vile ways. And the man… God help me, Buffy… he wants you, too.”

Buffy began to wrench his arms from around her when the first snowflake landed on her face. She looked up at the suddenly cloud-cloaked sky and more snowflakes joined the first, freezing her tears to her lashes. She sighed in relief and wrapped her arms around his bowed head, holding him to her.

“It’ll be okay, Angel… I promise,” Buffy murmured as his shoulders trembled with his sobs and he clung to her, desperate and afraid as snow covered them in a white, icy shroud. 

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come over,” Xander told Willow on Christmas morning as she sat down in the grass next to his sleeping bag where he was camped in his backyard. His parents had started drinking on Christmas Eve – the _morning_ of Christmas Eve. They’d begun fighting by the afternoon. He’d escaped to the backyard long before the Christmas lights had blinked on up and down the street, unable to stand to listen another moment.

“W-we can’t even be friends, anymore?” the redhead pouted. “We’ve always been friends. I used to come over all the time, and I hated thinking of you all alone out here with your pagan Santa-worshipping rituals.”

“And I appreciate that, but…”

“We stopped. It’s all good,” Willow assured him confidently. “It’s been, like, five whole weeks since we… _you know_.”

“Except that time in the library…” he reminded her.

“Well, yeah, that,” she agreed. “But we were both really tired and our defenses were down.”

“And that time walking home from Angel’s after Spike ripped that crazy-fake-Watcher’s arm off,” Xander added. “And can I just add, that dog is kinda scary at times.”

“Okay, sure, there was that. But exception for trauma and scary dogs,” Willow excused.

“And that time—”

“Anyway, I brought donuts!” she interrupted, opening the red and green box. “Look! They’re in the shape of trees.”

“Well, in that case, you can stay.” Xander sat up, reaching for one of the brightly-decorated treats. “Oh! Crème filled, too!” he exclaimed excitedly.

Willow smiled and picked one of her own. This was fine. They could totally be together alone as friends, just like they always had. They’d completely stopped with the inappropriate kissage… or, well, mostly. Just a couple… okay, a _few_ slips was all. It was no big deal. Spike – the vampire, that is – calling them out at Buffy’s that night had been a huge wakeup call! It could’ve been so much worse! Yeah, Buffy kept asking her what was going on between them, but Willow could answer honestly: nothing was going on. There was absolutely nothing going on here but friendship. Old friends sharing donuts in the backyard on Christmas morning. What could be more normal than that?

Did Xander know he had green icing on his lip? Maybe she should just… you know, wipe it off, as friends would do for friends. Oh… oh, my… how did her finger get into his mouth? What was his tongue doing? Oh… goddess. That was… wow. And… look, more icing on his lip, she could just kiss that off and taste that tongue… _Oh my_.

They both jerked back, eyes wide, lips tingling, tongues coated with too-sweet icing. A snowflake fell from the sky and clung to Willow’s eyelash. She blinked in surprise, but it didn’t budge. Xander reached over and gently swept it off. They both looked up at the sky as more and more snowflakes fell.

“Snow in Sunnydale exception?” Xander asked, looking back at her hopefully.

Willow’s sweet lips curled into an impious smile as she licked some of the crème filling from her donut and leaned in for an illicit kiss beneath the snowy sky. Just this one last time. 

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike was just wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth as he left the bodega in Pisté, his stolen treasures tucked up within his duster, getting ready to head back to their room.

Dru was off running with the spirits of the jaguar warriors through the jungles around Chichén Itzá. She’d been better since arriving at the Mayan ruins, less disagreeable and more attentive to her childe. Running through the bloody jungle was just what she needed, apparently. Spike joined her the first couple of times, but he’d never seen any ghosts or any jaguars – a few rabbits and deer was about it. He’d rather watch the telly back in their room, if he was honest. ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ would be on soon.

He looked at the postcard in his hand and smiled, wondering how Buffy spent Christmas mornings. Spike hadn’t celebrated in over a century, but he’d seen enough TV shows and movies to know how it was supposed to be – festive tree, lots of colorfully wrapped gifts beneath it, candy canes and fruitcake, a fire crackling in the fireplace, carolers, eggnog, a turkey in the oven, snow on the ground. He chuckled, be no snow in Sunnydale, of course.

He wondered what the Slayer would be asking Santa for for Christmas. Stakes? Crossbows? A new battle-axe? If he was there, he’d get her some proper music, that’s what he’d get the girl. And some chocolate… one o’ those sampler things. He’d get rid of that flavor-key on the lid, though. No fun having a sampler if ya know what you’re getting before you bite into something nasty. Like playing chocolate roulette.

Spike laughed, thinking of Buffy’s face if she got one of those cherry ones – how she’d shudder in disgust, how her nose would wrinkle up. She’d want to spit it out, of course, but couldn’t, being too polite and all – have to swallow it. God, the face she’d pull! Be priceless, that would! Yeah, that’s what he’d get her, he decided as he dropped the postcard into the letter box on the sidewalk and kept moving down the block, still smiling, his belly full, and the nicked cigarettes and liquor tangible weights in his pockets.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale_.**

Sitting in the school library, Buffy tapped an impatient staccato with her pen on the table as she looked over her notes in the journal in front of her. Her ‘interviews with a vampire’ had begun in earnest after that last dance at the Bronze. She knew Angel hadn’t been 100% candid with his descriptions of events, and he’d confirmed that yesterday morning on the hill, but that wasn’t really the important thing. She just needed to know dates and places to piece together a timeline. Had he been stalking Slayers or not?

Of course, Angel didn’t really know the motive behind the interviews – at least Buffy hoped not. All she’d told him was that Giles was making her document Angel’s history as punishment for not consulting her Watcher prior to going off with Spike to save Dru. It seemed like a good cover, since no way in hell would Buffy freely choose to do research of any sort.

She heard someone moving around up in the stacks and looked up to see Angel emerge from behind a bookcase and begin down the stairs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come today,” she said in greeting, watching him as he made his way to the seat across from her. “After… you know, the whole ‘Man from Snowy Sunnydale’ thing yesterday.”

“It’s the only time I really get to talk to you,” he admitted, his voice resigned. “Well, now and, I guess when you’re saving me from the sunrise.”

“Well, credit the Powers That Be with the saving. Snow in Sunnydale? Even at Christmas that is not of the normal,” she pointed out.

“I guess, but I’m not sure they’re the best judges. I trust you, Buffy. You said you’d tell me… tell me if all I am is a monster,” he reminded her, pulling the chair out and sitting down across from her. “Did you mean it? Will you keep your promise?”

Buffy sighed and set her pen down. “I’ll keep it, but I need you to be honest with me – like, Mr. Rogers honest. What did you mean before… about the kind of man you were—are?” she asked then. “You said it wasn’t the demon who needed killing, it was the man. What did you mean?”

Angel hung his head, shaking it slightly, his eyes glued to the tabletop. “I wasn’t a good man, Buffy. I…”

When he didn’t say anything more for several moments, Buffy suggested, “Slept around a lot?”

Angel snorted and looked back up at her, his brown eyes serious. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.”

Buffy nodded, remembering Spike’s words from their road trip, _“From what I hear, our Liam wasn’t what you’d call the most upstanding of citizens,” he’d revealed. “What do you think drew Darla to him in the first place? Watched him fight and drink and carouse, she did. Watched him fu… errr… Use the girls – whores and virgins alike – and toss ‘em away like ragdolls, leaving ‘em preggers or worse. Never gave ‘em a second thought, never looked back. Though, I do reckon Angelus made good in the end, killin’ them all, putting them outta their misery.”_

So, Spike had been telling her the truth about Liam’s past. Not that she really doubted it, but with the animosity between the two vampires, it wouldn’t have been a huge shock if Spike had embellished the tale a bit.

“What kind of man was Spike, you know, before?” she asked, the question past her lips before she could stop it. She could’ve kicked herself! Buffy braced for the jealous outrage from the brunette, but it oddly didn’t come.

Angel arched a brow at her, but leaned back in his chair. “Why do you want to know?” he asked warily.

“Curiosity,” Buffy replied.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Angel reminded her.

“But satisfaction brought it back,” she countered.

“You think Spike can _satisfy you_?” he snarked scornfully.

“Don’t be an ass,” Buffy shot back, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

Angel took an unneeded breath and sighed it out, apparently the only apology Buffy was going to get. “What did he tell you?”

“Are you going to answer every question with a question?” Buffy wondered, her annoyance growing. “I thought we agreed that you would truthfully answer whatever I asked.” She shouldn’t have asked about Spike in the first place, she knew that, but, now that she had, damn it, he should just answer her.

Angel sighed. “I will. I just want to know what he told you.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “He said that he’d ‘always been bad,’” she admitted.

The brunette snorted in amusement. “Honestly, I didn’t know him before Dru brought him home, but bad?” Angel shook his head. “The only thing _bad_ about William was his poetry. That’s where he got his name, you know?”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “Spike?”

“No, William, the bloody awful poet,” Angel revealed. “It’s what his high society friends called him behind his back… or well, not quite that far behind his back, I guess. He’d just been dumped by one of those incredibly dull, simpering morons when Dru found him, all weepy and heartbroken. Of course, he made the name a bit more literal after that.”

Buffy frowned, her heart twisting oddly in her chest in sympathy for the blond vampire… or for what he had once been. “So, he _was_ a lovelorn choirboy?” she asked, the words she’d said in jest to Spike during their trip coming back to her.

Angel chuckled darkly. “Worse – a lovelorn _poet_.”

“Spike… he… he seems to love Dru a lot,” Buffy posited hesitantly.

“She’s his _destiny_ ,” Angel agreed disdainfully, gesturing with his hands dramatically.

A zing of completely inappropriate jealousy shot through Buffy. Spike was so _not_ the point of these conversations. Why had she even brought him up!? But Angel wasn’t flying off the handle about it, what did it hurt? Know your enemy, right? Yeah, that’s it! It just made sense for her to know as much about Spike as she could, for, you know, some later, non-truce-y time.

“Why…” Buffy began, trying to corral her thoughts and ask something meaningful to her cause. “Why do you think Spike can love and Angelus couldn’t?”

Angel swallowed and looked back down at the table, shaking his head. “Spike was always… strange.”

Buffy almost laughed out loud, but covered it with a cough. “How so?”

Angel looked back up at her and shrugged. “All that romantic drivel and talk about destiny and true love. I mean, I can understand it _now_ , with my soul… after you,” he admitted. “But at the time – it just wasn’t… normal.”

Buffy furrowed her brows. “What about Dru? She seems… fond of Spike.”

Angel snorted and rolled his eyes skyward. “Dru follows the pixies… Spike follows Dru. She could cut his heart out and eat it, say she was still hungry and he’d offer her his liver.”

“So, she doesn’t love him?”

Angel shook his head. “Dru’s not capable of love… not like we know it, anyway.”

Buffy chewed her lip, considering all that, remembering Spike being injured on the road trip and Dru not helping him, not even seeming to notice his pain. “Before — last year, when you were trying to warn me about Ford — you gave me the Reader’s Digest version of what happened to Dru. Tell me the rest.”

“The rest of what?” he asked.

“The rest of how you turned her… how you drove her insane. It’s what you were trying to do to me, wasn’t it?”

“Not me. Angelus,” he muttered darkly.

Buffy stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Sometimes he talked about Angelus as a different person, other times he didn’t… like, he forgot to. She was less and less convinced Angel and Angelus were so separate. “Fine, Angelus,” she capitulated. “Tell me what he did to her.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I really do,” she insisted. “You agreed to tell me everything so I could decide if you were nothing but a monster – remember? If you aren’t going to keep your agreement…” she threatened, beginning to close the journal.

“Fine,” he acquiesced bitterly, not wanting her to leave, but then grew silent for well over a minute, perhaps two. Buffy waited, not pushing more, relying on the extra guilt The First had poured into him the last few days to work in her favor and get him to open up.

Finally, Angel took a deep breath and began, “Angelus was going to break you… like he broke Dru, turn you, keep you, but you were stronger than she was… not just your body, but your mind. She was always… fragile. Beautiful like a diamond, but if you strike at just the right angle, it shatters.”

“And you knew the right angle?” Buffy prompted.

“Angelus made it his business to find weaknesses and exploit them,” Angel admitted. “He killed her friends and her family, even her parish… but that’s not what twisted her ability to love.”

“What was?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

“She was pious… innocent, a devout Catholic, virginal… so pure,” he said finally, his voice soft, barely audible, his eyes on the table between them. “Before Angelus made her a demon, he made her feel things she’d never felt – heaven and hell, rapture and agony. He brought her body to the highest peaks, then plummeted her into unimaginable pain. He made her scream first in pleasure, then in anguish, then back to pleasure, over and over.”

Angel paused and swallowed audibly, clearly uncomfortable, but Buffy didn’t push, didn’t want to push him away now that he was really opening up, telling her the whole, ugly truth.

After a few moments, he began again, still talking about Angelus in the third person, as if it wasn’t the vampire across the table from Buffy who had done these things. “He shared her with… with minions – men, women… even children – let them ravage her, use her… as long as they didn’t kill her, he set no limits. They took her over and over, in every way possible. They would brutalize her, then Angelus would comfort her, heal her, only to give her back to them when her tears dried. And the whole time, through her tears and her screams, through her agony and her bliss, for days and days, he told her…”

Angel stopped and clenched his jaw, making muscles bulge and tic in his cheek before continuing, “He told her what a good girl she was, and how much he loved her. And then, when she couldn’t tell the difference any more between the pleasure and the pain, when she begged for both, when it all meant ‘love’, then I... _he_ did the worst thing he could do – he let her go, he gave her _hope_.

“She fled to a convent, desperate to take her holy orders, to be cleansed and safe... safe from me, safe from herself. As soon as she thought she was free, absolved... then he delivered the final blow, broke her utterly. He snatched her hope away, reclaimed her body for himself, made her beg for it over and over again – for pain and pleasure – and finally turned her into a demon.”

A thick, oppressive silence settled over them for many long moments. Buffy had to swallow, had to try and remember how to breathe, before she could ask, “You said the demon wants me in every way… in horrific, vile ways. Is that what you meant?”

Angel closed his eyes, then gave a small nod.

A frisson of fear and revulsion skittered down Buffy’s spine, but she only nodded in return, and looked down at her journal, which blurred behind a layer of moisture that filled her eyes. Her heart ached for Drusilla, for what she’d been through, for what had been done to her. It explained a lot. How the insane vampire was functional at all was the biggest shock, really. She’d been a victim, as had William… as, Buffy supposed, had Liam at one time, and even Darla. Buffy shook her head. She couldn’t think like that – that attitude was a very good way to get very dead very fast.

The Slayer took a breath and let it out, blinking back her tears, trying to find a way to turn the conversation to something else. She wasn’t sure her stomach or her heart could handle much more brutal honestly right now, especially about someone she knew. “Spike said all vampires were different, that he and Angelus were on the opposite ends of the spectrum,” she offered quietly.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Angel agreed in a hoarse whisper, seeming relieved for the change. He reached across the table and covered her small hand with his. “But all vampires are dangerous. Angelus is dangerous, Dru’s dangerous. Spike’s dangerous. He’s got no scruples, no conscience, no morals. He’s deadly, Buffy – he’s killed two Slayers already. He’ll kill _you_ if he gets the chance. You’ve gotten lucky with him so far, but… please trust me. If he comes back, you need to take him out… or call me and I’ll do it. If he kills you… I...” His voice broke and he just shook his head, unable to find words.

Buffy thought of the postcards. She thought of their road trip to rescue Dru, of Spike letting the dog in to comfort her when she’d been crying. She thought of him stopping the car and singing radio-karaoke with her. She thought of him drinking hot cocoa with her mom. Of him feeding her dog, and remembering to get him water. Of him leaving sweet surprises in her overnight bag. She didn’t doubt that Spike would try to kill her given half a chance – it was his _thing_. But ‘no scruples, no conscience, no morals’? No – that wasn’t Spike at all. That was Angelus.

Buffy nodded, giving Angel what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and pulled her hand from beneath his, trying to stifle a shudder than ran through her at his touch. “Don’t worry. I can handle Spike,” she assured him as she picked up her pen and looked down at the journal.

“Maybe we should just get back to the timeline,” she suggested. “We were up to 1771 and Rome. Where did you go after that?”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy and Angel both looked up as the double doors of the library swung open sometime later. Giles came in, carrying a pile of journals in his arms, along with a large blue crystal. It was still Christmas break, so the school was quiet and empty apart from them.

“Angel, Buffy,” he greeted them simply, unsurprised by their presence. “How is the assignment going?”

Buffy looked down at her notes, once again tapping the end of the pen on the journal. “We’ve made it to 1860,” she revealed. “So, you know, progress.”

“Very good. I do appreciate you taking the time to assist in this project, Angel,” the Watcher said, setting his burden down onto the checkout counter. 

“Uh, yeah… sure,” Angel stammered, standing up, still uncomfortable around the man Angelus had tortured so brutally.

“I-Is now a good time to break from your inquiries?” Giles asked Buffy. “I have a new training technique I’d like to begin with you. If you can master it, I believe you will find you will have a better command of your focus and concentration, making distractions less, well, errr… distracting during a battle.”

“I should be going anyway,” Angel excused, heading back for the stairs and the door behind the stacks. “Tomorrow?” he asked, looking at Buffy.

“Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel,” she agreed, trying to sound chipper but falling short, as she closed her journal. Her stomach still churned with Angel’s revelations about Drusilla, but she was doing her best to not think about it. She had a feeling she’d be seeing too much of that in her nightmares, she didn’t need it in her daymares too.

“Guess I’m all yours,” she said to Giles in a too-bright tone that did little to disguise her dread of trying to learn another of his new-agey concentration thingies. She was sooo not concentration girl – she was action girl.

“Wonderful, then let’s get started,” the Watcher suggested as he heard the door close behind Angel. “Err, where is your counterpart?” he asked, looking around for the dog.

“Oh, Mom took him to the groomers for a cut and a blow dry. He was thinking of going blond, too, but I’m not sure if the world could handle two blond Spikes,” she quipped.

“Ah. I see,” Giles replied flatly, looking a bit distracted.

“That was a joke – there will be no bleaching of doggie fur,” she explained.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He chuckled unconvincingly.

Buffy sighed. No one appreciated her Spike humor. “He doesn’t have to learn to focus too, does he?” she wondered, mostly joking.

“What? Oh, no, no… I simply… I-I had a treat for him. Perhaps you could make sure he gets it?” he suggested, pulling a small Ziploc bag from his pocket and handing it to her. Inside were a few brownish morsels that looked like beef jerky.

“Sure,” Buffy, agreed, stuffing the bag into her purse without question. People bringing treats for Spike wasn’t unusual – Spike was a treat demon. “So, am I the only one who gets to learn this new thingy, or should we call Faith? Cos, pretty sure she could use some focusy-goodness.”

“Uhh… no, just you,” Giles stammered as he brought the crystal over from the counter and set it on the table in front of Buffy.

“Wow. Look at me with all the luck having,” Buffy continued, rolling her eyes. “Pretty rock, though – very blue,” she observed. _‘Like a certain vampire’s eyes.’_

“Yes, quite. Now, then, the idea is to look into the crystal and find the flaw. To do so, you must block everything else out, excluding all external distractions from your focus. Shall we give it a try, then?”

“Why not?” Buffy agreed, taking a breath and letting it out like Giles had shown her numerous times before, then focused her eyes on the crystal.

“You may need to soften your gaze, look through the stone until the flaw comes into focus,” he advised.

“Oh! Like those trick pictures at the mall,” she confirmed, nodding. “Gotcha.”

Thoughts flitted through Buffy’s mind as she tried to focus and find the flaw in the crystal – nothing new there. Focusing was not her thing. She thought about Angel – about all that she didn’t know about him, and all that she wished she didn’t know. She thought about Spike – about how he, too, had hidden things about himself. _Bloody awful poet._ But she couldn’t honestly blame him for that. It certainly wasn’t something a vampire, or anyone else, for that matter, would go around bragging about, was it?

She tried to picture Spike before he met Dru – as William, crying over some woman who had rejected him. Was that why he could love so deeply, even without his soul, because of his state of mind when he’d been turned? Or was it, as he’d told her, just that all vampires were different, that they retained more than just memories?

Or maybe Spike was just strange, as both she and Angel had observed. She laughed to herself. He was strange, alright.

She very pointedly did _not_ think about Dru.

“Alright, my dear, that’s enough for today,” Giles said, touching her shoulder.

Buffy jumped, blinking, and looked around. “Huh? Oh… sorry, I guess not too focusy today,” she excused.

“It’s quite alright. We’ll practice more, you’ll get it in time,” her Watcher assured her.

“Oh, fun!” Buffy announced, sarcasm dripping like maple syrup, as she stood up and began gathering up her journal and purse, only then noticing the time. Her brows furrowed and she looked back at Giles. “How long did I stare at that rock?”

“Uh, j-just a few minutes,” he replied, his gaze averted from hers as he took the crystal from the table.

She frowned, looking up at the clock. She was sure it had been about 8:30 when Angel had left and now it was well after nine. Had she looked at the clock wrong before?

“Don’t forget to give your housemate his treats,” Giles reminded her as he headed for the office.

“Trust me, he’d never let me forget – he’d sniff them out,” Buffy assured him, calling, “See you tomorrow,” as she headed out, shaking off the weird feeling of lost time.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“I’m home,” Buffy announced after doing a quick sweep of Restfield. She’d worried that Angel would wait for her outside the school, or track her down and offer to ‘help her patrol’, but, apparently, he’d finally gotten that memo. It had probably been fully delivered the last time he’d gotten between Spike and a fledge, resulting in a few cracked ribs and plenty of doggie drool all over Angel’s clothes. Spike was nothing if not an enthusiastic deliverer of memos.

Thinking of the devil-dog made him appear. He bounced up to her happily, doing a little doggie dance around her feet before bumping against her legs and nearly knocking Buffy over. She leaned down and hugged his neck. “You smell good! And they got all those tangles out, too,” she told him, rubbing his silky coat playfully. “Who’s a handsome boy?” she asked in a baby-talk voice. Spike’s tail began stirring enough air to lift a helicopter off the ground as he tried to turn his head and lick her face. “Spike’s a handsome boy, that’s who,” Buffy continued in the same tone, laughing, and standing back up to avoid the sloppy kisses.

“There was something in the mail for you,” Joyce called from upstairs. “It’s on the table.”

This had become a favorite part of Buffy’s day. Mail call. It wasn’t like a card came every day, but it was often enough to make her tummy turn little flips in hopeful anticipation every evening when she came in. Having a card from Spike somehow made the stresses and even the horrors of the day fade, at least for a little while.

Buffy set her purse and the journal down and quickly sorted through the mail on the table by the door. Junk. Junk. More Junk. Ah-ha! She grinned as her fingers pulled out the colorful, glossy cardboard.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50841544871/in/dateposted-public/)

“It’s a little late,” Joyce said, coming down the stairs, tying a robe closed over her PJs, watching her daughter.

“Vampires and Christmas are usually unmixy. I don’t think Angel even knew it was Christmas – despite the literal flashing lights announcing it,” Buffy admitted.

As had become her tradition, she first took in the picture on the card, before turning it over to read what Spike had written. This one had a colorful drawing of a Calavera, a sugar-skull, decorated in green and red. There were poinsettias in the eye sockets, a Christmas tree for the nose, and curlicues of holly leaves festooning the bone. It wore a red Santa’s hat, with ‘Feliz Navidad’ in neat handwriting across the white band. There was even a gold cross in the middle of the skull’s forehead, which made Buffy wonder if Spike had to be careful when he’d touched it – did drawings of crosses burn vampires? Inquiring minds want to know.

Joyce watched her daughter’s face light up as she turned the card over and read Spike’s holiday greeting, _‘Word to the wise: Santa’s a sodding demon, so don’t go sitting on his lap making daft wishes. Happy Christmas. HYYF —S’_

Buffy laughed and looked up at her mom, who was smiling back at her. “Is Santa really a demon?” the older woman wondered.

“God knows – probably!” Buffy replied, still smiling, but not letting anything more than amusement show. Spike had remembered Christmas! Seriously!? And sent her a card? Yeah, it was a couple of days late, but still… he’d remembered. Little colorful Christmas lights sparkled and glowed in her chest, making her feel all tingly.

Joyce turned and headed back up the stairs. “I made you a plate for dinner – you’ll just have to warm it up,” she called back over her shoulder.

“Thanks, Mom,” Buffy replied, heading toward the kitchen with the postcard still in hand. “Oh! Treats,” she remembered, spinning back around and grabbing her purse. “Giles sent you treats,” she told the big dog, who had tilted his head in keen interest the first time she’d said ‘treats’.

Buffy pulled the Ziploc baggie out and tossed Spike one of the bits of jerky, which he gobbled up with alacrity, before eagerly eyeing the remainder of the bag. Buffy rolled her eyes. “I know you got treats at the groomers, too,” she chastised, heading for the kitchen again, the big dog right on her heels. “You’re gonna get fat and lazy, then what good will you be delivering memos? Tell me that.”

“Rrrrr-warf!” Spike replied, his front feet bouncing off the floor before nudging the bag in her hand with his muzzle.

Buffy sighed and shook her head, tossing him another bit of dried meat from the bag. “Yeah, yeah, you say that now. You’ll be singing another tune if I have to put you on a diet,” she continued, taking the plate her mom had made her from the fridge and putting it in the microwave.

Spike sat down, his mouth hanging open happily, his tail swishing across the tiles, sweeping away any trace of dust that might’ve been there. He watched her like a… well, like a dog waiting for a treat, his eager brown eyes following every move she made. “Rrrrwarf!” he said again when another treat did not magically appear in the air in front of his nose.

Buffy turned around and sighed. “I blame Spike for this. He totally ruined you,” she chastised lightly, tossing him another bite from the bag. “That’s what happens when you hang out with evil vampires – they ruin your perfectly good dog by feeding them French fries.”

Spike sneezed, his whole body quivering with the motion, and looked back up at her expectantly.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know – you disagree. Stop the presses!” she mocked.

“Woof!” Spike replied happily, his eyes glittering with anticipation. 

“I give up,” Buffy sighed, tossing him the last two treats from the bag. “All gone now,” she told him holding up the empty bag. “And, no, you can’t have any of mine.”

Spike watched carefully for a moment to make sure it wasn’t a trick – hoomans always thought it was funny to try and hide treats, but he could always find them, no matter where they were hidden. Finally, he decided she really didn’t have any more of the savory morsels. He huffed out a disgusted breath and trudged over to his water dish, splashing enough on the floor to start a small flood as he drank. The microwave dinged and Buffy took her plate, a napkin, and some silverware and put it on a tray, grabbed a soda from the fridge and headed up to her room to eat, ignoring the puddle on the floor. It would dry, right?

In her room, Buffy set the tray down on her dressing table beneath her mirror, sitting down in front of it to eat. Spike had followed her up, and, with a resigned sigh, he turned around three times and plopped down heavily on the floor next to her – just in case anything fell that needed to be devoured immediately. It was one of his sacred duties, along with crunching rabbits.

Buffy propped the postcard up against the mirror, the smile returning to her lips as she looked it all over again, studying every detail until she found it. It was tiny this time, fangs and eyes drawn in, added to one of the teeth on the skull, turning the white oblong into a vampire. The Slayer laughed again, feeling victorious.

She took a bite of the leftover turkey and mashed potatoes from her plate and looked up at all the other postcards that circled her mirror, all tucked in between the glass and the frame. There were five in total, averaging about one a week since Spike-the-vampire had been gone, though they didn’t come on any regular schedule. All the ones he’d mailed had vampire fangs drawn on it somewhere. Some were very easy to spot, others kind of hidden. It had become sort of a game for her to find them. So far, she’d found them all.

The postmarks were from different places. The first one to come in the mail had been from L.A., but all the subsequent ones were from towns in Mexico. Buffy had looked each one up on a map, tracking Spike and Dru across the vast country south of the border. It somehow made her feel more connected… which was stupid, she knew. Firstly, because she shouldn’t even _want_ to feel connected to the Slayer of Slayers, secondly because she was just tracking him on a map, like some kind of really lame stalker, and third because… Well, she couldn’t think of a third reason, but there had to be one. Everything came in threes, right?

Buffy — or her mom or her dog — had gotten cards postmarked from Chihuahua, Mexico City, Ixtapaluca — which was near Mexico City— and this Christmas one from a town called Pisté, which she’d have to look up.

Of course, each message from Spike was different, from piggy to funny to just, well, kinda sweet – cocoa was sweet, right? Buffy sighed, eating more of her dinner, as her eyes wandered over all the cards. Once again, Spike, even from another country, had outdone anything any other man in her life had ever done to make her feel special. Not even her dad thought to send postcards when he traveled for work. He sometimes brought back gifts when she was a little girl, but they were clearly last-minute things picked up at the airport… some were from LAX, not even the place he’d gone. Even at five, Buffy could tell there’d been no thought put into them.

Angel had given her a Claddagh ring on her birthday last year… had it only been a year? Well, almost a year. Her birthday was still three weeks away. It felt like a lifetime since she’d stood on the docks with him, her world shattering, her heart breaking as he readied to board a ship for parts unknown. Of course, her world had shattered even more than she could’ve imagined when he _didn’t_ go. Buffy wondered if he would’ve thought to send her cards or letters on his trip. She shrugged one shoulder, taking a bite of potatoes, maybe… he might’ve. Angelus certainly enjoyed leaving ‘gifts’ for everyone. She shook her head. It just wasn’t the same… Angel just wasn’t the same as Spike, the whole vibe was different, and she had to admit she liked Spike’s vibe better.

Buffy ate more of her turkey, then found a spot to slip the Christmas postcard in among the others on the mirror. She let out a sigh, feeling lighter and happier than she had all day. How could a simple postcard from her sworn frenemy lift her heart so easily? Almost as well as puppy-dog hugs and slobbery kisses?

“Stupid vampire,” she muttered, shaking her head at herself. “Stupid me.” Spike’s vibe belonged to Drusilla. Who didn’t even appreciate it. But who Buffy found harder to hate now that she knew more about what had happened to her.

The Slayer sighed, her mood turning melancholy. _‘I so need to get a date, preferably with a guy who has a pulse and no girlfriend.’_

* * *

**Story Board**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo,[you can find it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2ksGENS)**

**Mexico**

**[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50841635062/in/dateposted-public/) **

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo,[you can find it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2ksGEQL)**

**Sunnydale**

**[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50841635172/in/dateposted-public/)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in canon Giles presented the ‘find the flaw in the crystal’ thing as part of an overall ‘study of vibratory stones’. But, since that was nothing more than an excuse to get her trance-like, I figured he might’ve changed the reason he wanted her to ‘find the flaw’ in the big blue stone, so, in this AU, he did.
> 
> Jaguar Warriors: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaguar_warrior


	6. Homewreckers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, you have no idea!
> 
> Some dialogue borrowed from ‘Lover’s Walk’ written by Dan Vebber.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the lack of Spike T. Vampire in this chapter. We’ve got some Buffy POV plot to move along, but we’ll get back to The Big Bad(TM) next chapter.
> 
> As always, my undying gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and overall awesomeness!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50792069356/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

“Congratulations! Go away now!” Buffy sneered as she slammed a fist into the newly-risen vampire, sending blood flying from his mouth.

“Uhh...okay,” the demon in the baby-blue suit, clearly something he’d worn to prom, replied, licking the blood from his lips and looking around in confusion.

“You should go to college – far away from here!” the Slayer continued, landing a round-house kick to the vampire’s midsection and sending him stumbling back.

“I… uh, already went to college,” the vampire told her as it recovered, but Buffy wasn’t really talking to him, and was, thus, not listening either.

“1430 on your SATs! Congratulations. Good job! Here’s your prize! Leave! Never come back!” she continued, delivering a sharp right jab to the vamp’s chin.

“Ow!” he cried, rubbing the spot as he landed a right jab of his own, snapping Buffy’s head back. “1430 on your SATs? That’s impressive!” he congratulated her. “You could get into some good colleges with that.”

“No one’s talking to you!” Buffy snarled at him, returning the punch, practically cracking the guy’s jaw.

“Well, excuse me!” he grumbled, ducking another blow and delivering a kick to her midsection.

Buffy stumbled back into a headstone before catching her balance and closing on him again. “Oh, and by the way, you’ll have to leave Spike behind. He’ll have to stay with Faith… you know, since she can do anything you can do, probably better. Reward her for going MIA for days on end by crowning her the new Miss Sunnydale in the Slayer Pageant and giving her your dog,” Buffy growled scornfully as the two traded heavy body blows. “Anyway, there’s no room in college dorms for a mountain-sized Slayer-dog whose hobbies include killing vampires, eating burgers, and peeing in Angel’s shoes.”

“Wait – there’s a dog, too?” Blue-suit asked, ducking the Slayer’s high, spinning butterfly kick. “I’ve never really liked dogs. Not since I was a kid and a Pomeranian nearly bit off my finger.”

Buffy stopped a second and blinked at him, recovering from her missed kick. “Pomeranian?” she questioned, side-tracked from her rant.

“It took three stitches!” he defended, holding up said finger for her inspection.

Buffy rolled her eyes and punched him. “Go to a strange town with even stranger people. No friends. Nothing but classes, keg parties, and frat boys… gee! I can’t wait!” the Slayer continued, getting back to her diatribe, and delivering a hard left cross.

“I was a frat boy once!” he informed her as the Slayer blocked his retaliating punch.

“Exactly my point!” Buffy grumbled as she ducked a haymaker he threw at her. “Vampires. Frat boys! What’s the damn difference?”

“Well, I’m new at this, but I’d say the craving for blood instead of beer – and how amazing you smell,” he admitted, sniffing pointedly in her direction.

Buffy rolled her eyes and pulled her stake out for the first time. “Will you vampires ever get over the creepy extrasensory-smell thing?” she wondered as she buried the wood in the white ruffles on Blue-suit’s chest with a sharp blow.

“Uhhh—” he began, his eyes wide, but couldn’t finish before he disintegrated into dust.

Buffy sighed and tucked her stake back into the waistband of her jeans, looking over at her audience for the first time. “It didn’t really help,” she complained, walking over to where the big dog with the Angel-shoe-peeing hobby waited.

Buffy leaned back on the headstone next to her slaying-buddy and slid down to sit on the pedestal at its base. “No one gets it,” she complained dourly as Spike leaned into her, nuzzling his big head onto her lap. The girl scratched his fuzzy ears affectionately, leaning down to rest her forehead against his. “Giles thinks you’re a tool… a-a weapon for me to use, like a stake or an axe or something,” she continued, taking comfort in the enormous dog’s warmth and bulk against her legs. “Angel just plain hates you, so any plan to get you away from me is aces in his book. Willow and Xander… they just think you’re a dog, like… like Willow’s goldfish or the dust bunnies Xander keeps under his bed.”

Spike sighed heavily in wordless disdain, a gesture not unlike those that Buffy often employed.

“Mom sort of gets it, but she’s like, ‘It’s just four years, and you’ll be back for summers and holidays…’” the Slayer continued. “But she doesn’t really understand what happens out here – and I don’t really want her to,” Buffy admitted. “I can’t tell her how many times I’ve nearly died. Explaining the one time I _did_ actually die nearly sent her into overprotective apoplexy. She seems to think there aren’t vampires and demons in Des Moines or wherever-the-hell she wants me to go to school.”

Spike sneezed lightly, more gently than normal since Buffy had her arms around him now, resting her cheek against his massive head.

“Yeah, I know, I can handle them,” she sighed in agreement. “I killed Lothos and the Master, after all, and Spike never managed to kill me – _stupid vampire_ – and I survived Angelus, but…” Another sigh fell from her lips. “I’d miss you so much. Sometimes I think my heart will just wither up and blow away when I think about everything that’s happened in my life. About being Chosen for this gig without my permission – without even _asking_ me, and then everything with Angel – loving him so much, setting Angelus free, getting him back for just a moment and having to send him to hell, then somehow getting him back again only to wonder if… if he ever loved me at all. Sometimes it’s just too much. But then, there you are and…” Buffy’s voice broke as tears welled in her eyes. “And you keep me from shattering,” she whispered to the dog, hugging him tighter.

“No one understands,” she rasped against his thick fur as her tears began to fall in earnest. 

Spike keened softly, doing his best to climb into her lap like he could when he was little. He lifted his head and rested his heavy chin on her shoulder as his big body squirmed to settle on her thighs. She did her best to cradle him, letting him pretend to be lap-sized – thank goodness for Slayer strength! Buffy smiled wanly as she breathed in the scent of him. He smelled like the evergreens he’d been running through earlier, and the ‘Mango Tango’ shampoo from the groomer, with a hint of vamp dust topping it off, but, under it all, he was just her friend. The one person – or, you know, dog – in all the world that could always make her heart feel better.

Buffy was hit with the memory of Spike-the-vampire sending his namesake into the bathroom their first night on the road trip to comfort her. The bleached jerk had hurt her feelings earlier in the evening… which she hated admitting to, but his words had stung her. She’d retreated to the bathroom, to the shower, where he couldn’t see or hear, or _smell_ her cry. But he’d known anyway – knew she was hurting, knew the dog could help.

She snorted softly and shook her head, still holding the huge dog like he was still a puppy. “Spike would understand,” she murmured. “Annoying vampire… he’d understand.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Another one, so soon?” Buffy squeaked when she found the postcard from Spike waiting on the table by the door when she got home. She couldn’t stop the grin from splitting her face as she thought of the pain-in-her-ass vampire who flung innuendos and insults so freely, but who then seemed to regret when they actually hit a soft spot. Is that what you got when a ‘lovelorn poet’ got turned into a vampire?

Buffy shook those thoughts off and looked at the card, as always, checking out the picture before the words. This one was from Chichén Itzá. She’d seen the name on the map when she looked up Pisté from the Christmas card; they were nearly side-by-side down on the Yucatan peninsula. She’d heard of Chichén Itzá before, but never knew exactly where it was until Spike’s impromptu Mexican geography lesson. The card had a pyramid looking thing in the background and a statue of a guy kinda reclining on his back with his knees and arms bent, hands covering his stomach… or perhaps lower. Her brows furrowed as she looked at the image, her mind wandering off down a naughty path.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50860020197/in/dateposted-public/)

“Just what exactly is that guy doing with his hands down there?” she chuckled before turning the card over. Spike’s note read, ‘ _What do ya reckon this bloke is doing, exactly?’_

It was a good thing Buffy wasn’t eating or drinking anything at that moment, or she would’ve done a spit-take. As it was, she nearly choked on thin air as she began to laugh. Even when he was closer to Cuba than California, he took time to be piggy via airmail. The only scary part of that was that her mind had gone to the exact same place.

“Oh, God…” she swore, shaking her head. “Maybe some frat boys and keg parties wouldn’t be so bad after all.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“You just need some cheering up,” Willow suggested the next day as they walked to class. “You’re just a little down-in-the-dumpy. Come bowling with us – me, Oz, Xander, and Cordy are going. It’ll get you right back to happy-Buffy!”

Buffy arched a brow. “If I’m so far down that bowling is a step up, then just toss a sheet over the corpse and keep walking.”

“Awww, don’t be like that,” Willow cajoled. “It’ll be lots of fun, you’ll see!”

Buffy shook her head. “I’d be like a third wheel… or, actually a fifth wheel. Solo Buffy in all her pathetic aloneness.”

“Oh!” Willow brightened. “Bring a date! Then we’ll be all wheely-perfection.”

Buffy snorted. “And who should I bring? My grumpy ex who may or may not have been just using me to break his curse, or the guy I currently live with – the furry one with no opposable thumbs?”

Willow’s resolve face emerged. “You just show up ready to bowl your blues away, missy,” she instructed her friend. “I’ll make sure there’s another wheel for you to, you know, roll around in the gutters with.”

Buffy arched a brow. “Speaking of ‘rolling around in the gutter’ with others,” Buffy began, looking questioningly at Willow. “Are you ever gonna tell me what’s up with you and Xander?”

“Up? Nothing’s up! There is no rolling of any kind with Xander, gutters or not!” Willow declared much too vehemently.

Buffy cast her eyes heavenward and gave up. Willow would tell her when she was ready, she supposed. “I think ‘no’ on the bowling and gutter rolling. I should probably patrol. Faith’s been MIA…”

“Do you see this face?” Willow interrupted, pointing to herself. “This is resolve-face. You will come. There will be bowling. There will be date-y-ness, possibly flirting and laughing, and absolute lifting of amazing-SAT-score blues.”

Buffy sighed. “Will there be cheeseburgers?”

“Yes… and possibly chili-dogs… I’ve heard they also have nachos.”

“With radioactively-orange cheese?” Buffy asked hopefully.

“What else would any self-respecting bowling alley have?” Willow assured her with a firm nod.

“Well, you should’ve said so in the first place.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“So, you found a date for Buffy?” Xander asked as he followed Willow into the science lab at school.

“Yeah… well, Cordelia helped,” Willow admitted as she began checking the ingredients for the de-lusting spell she was set to perform to stop this… whatever it was, between her and Xander. They’d been able to mostly stop on their own after Spike-the-vampire’s accusations a few weeks ago, but then the whole ‘romantic snow exception’ brought it all tumbling back on them with a vengeance.

“And they’re all meeting us here before our night of bowling magic?” he continued.

“There's no magic!” Willow squeaked. “I mean, bowling, yeah. They’re gonna meet us here later.”

“Hey! What’s this? It smells like church in here. No, wait... Evil church,” Xander observed, looking around.

“It's just chemistry stuff. An experiment,” Willow dismissed.

Xander furrowed his brows as he came to a stop next to Willow. “So, who’d you girls get for this cheering of the Buffster bowling date?”

“Percy West.”

“The jock?” Xander squeaked. “With the muscles and the square jaw and the… muscles?”

Willow shrugged, checking over the items on the counter in front of her. “Buffy’s pretty strong. We thought she’d like muscles. Plus, Cordy said he has half a brain.”

“As if she could tell,” Xander scoffed.

Willow turned to look at him. “She’s dating _you_.”

“My point exactly!” Xander retorted.

“Your points need to be introduced to a good whetstone,” Willow decided, looking confused. 

“My point is, if someone with half a brain and a pulse is good enough for Buffy, then why’d she shoot me down like a gooney bird in a no-fly zone?” he explained.

A hurt expression settled on Willow’s features; her de-lusting mission temporarily forgotten. “You still like Buffy in a, you know, kissing sense? I thought I was your kissing buddy,” she pouted.

“You are… you so are,” Xander assured her, reaching out and cupping her cheek with his hand. “Can I kiss your earlobe?”

“Yes.” Willow leaned toward him, then jerked back, her eyes going wide. “No! This is wrong!”

“So, so wrong,” Xander agreed, leaning in closer. “Can I?”

“You… you don’t kiss Buffy like this, do you?” Willow wondered, the little green jealousy monster getting the better of her.

“No,” he whispered, his lips hovering over her earlobe, his breath tickling her skin. “Can I?”

“M-maybe… j-just once more…” she agreed. This was it, though! Then the de-lusting spell and then everything would be back to normal! No exceptions for snow or trauma or tiredness or even imminent death situations. No Xander kissing, or inappropriate touching, or… _oh_ … nibbling.

Xander’s mouth pressed down gently on her skin, pulling her earlobe between his lips, and nipping lightly.

“Mmmm,” Willow moaned, tilting her head to the side. “You swear… no Buffy kissage?”

“I swear,” Xander breathed, moving his mouth down to kiss her neck, drawing another moan from Willow.

“Pinky swear?” Willow murmured as her hands wrapped around the back of his neck, holding him to her.

“Every part of me swear,” Xander replied breathlessly as his lips found hers, silencing any further demands or objections, if she’d had any.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Oh, God!” Cordelia’s voice cut through the fog clouding Willow and Xander’s hormone-addled brains.

The two life-long friends jerked apart, guilt rolling over them like radioactive rain in Chernobyl.

“Oh, God,” Xander echoed Cordy’s declaration, his wide, horrified eyes meeting hers.

“Oh, God, Oz...” Willow added a moment later, taking a step toward her boyfriend.

“Oh, shit,” Buffy muttered from behind Cordy and Oz, breaking the prayer chain.

Percy, standing beside the Slayer, peered into the room to try and see what was happening, but couldn’t make out anything. “What’s happening?” he asked Buffy when his efforts resulted in only confusion.

The jock was looking down at her with yummy, chocolate-brown eyes, though, admittedly, there didn’t seem to be a lot going on behind them. Buffy had been suitably impressed with the gutter-rolling date Willow and Cordy had found for her. Tall, but not too tall, with a strong jawline that looked like it could take a punch, and strong hands that seemed like they could deliver one, (are those things she should be looking for in a prospective date?). He had rich, chestnut-brown hair that was long enough to run your fingers through, but not so long to be a handicap in a fight (again… is that a normal thought?), and muscles… such nice muscles.

“I think the ‘gutter rolling’ just kicked my friends in the ass,” Buffy said cryptically, as all the air in the room seemed to turn to shards of ice.

“Cordy, I...” Xander started, taking a step toward his girlfriend.

“Don’t you dare!” Cordelia seethed, spinning on her expensive heel.

“Cordy, wait!” Buffy tried, grabbing her arm. “Where are you going?”

Cordelia jerked her arm and Buffy released it, not wanting to hurt her. “As far away from you losers as I can get!” she growled, pushing past Buffy and Percy as she began to run, her angry steps clicking down the empty hall.

“Oz…” Willow tried, before he, too, turned and, without a word, disappeared down the hallway.

“Does this mean bowling’s off?” Percy asked, looking between the three remaining prospective bowlers.

“Half a brain, my ass,” Xander huffed as he started down the hall, following the other two.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the end of the passage; a surprised shriek from Cordy was followed by thuds of impact.

“Cordelia!” Oz’s voice sounded out in what constituted a frantic outcry for the laconic werewolf.

The tone of Oz’s voice alone had Buffy and Willow following quickly behind Xander. When they arrived at the top of the stairs, they found Oz and Cordy at the bottom, the redhead crouched over the cheerleader’s crumpled form. He looked up, concern etched in his normally stoic features. “Call an ambulance. She fell the whole way down… I don’t know what’s broken … other than her Louboutins – can’t move her.”

“Oh, God! Cordy!” Xander cried, hurdling down the stairs to her while Buffy ran for a phone.

Willow was rooted to the spot, her entire insides ripped and shredded with guilt, her arms wrapped around her torso, trying to simply hold herself together. She’d done this – her and Xander. It had been wrong – so, so wrong – and she’d known it and hadn’t stopped. And now Cordy… God! The brunette’s face was already blooming with bruises and lumps and she just looked completely broken. _My fault, my fault, my fault…_

“So,” Percy began, looking at the distraught witch. “If there’s no bowling, do you think Buffy would go out with me another time?”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“So, on a scale of one to infinity plus a thousand, how much are you hating me right now?” Willow asked Buffy as they walked home after school the next day.

“Zero. Zero hating,” Buffy replied. “I mean… it’s not like I haven’t kept secrets and done things that maybe weren’t Mensa-worthy.”

“Yeah, but your thing didn’t put Cordelia in the hospital with a concussion,” Willow pointed out.

“No, it got Ms. Calendar, Kendra, and who knows how many other people killed,” the Slayer replied glumly.

“Oh,” Willow gulped. “The sleeping with Angel thing… I was thinking about the running off with Spike thing.”

“I didn’t run off with—” Buffy began defensively, but then sighed and shook her head. “I guess my point is, we all make mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Willow agreed, looking down at the sidewalk. “But… well, once is a mistake, when you keep doing something when you know it’s wrong… that’s… well, really stupid.”

“Let he who is without stupidity cast the first shadow,” Buffy extolled sagely.

“Uh,” Willow stuttered, looking at her friend. “I think you mean, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’”

“Do I?” The blonde shrugged. “Whatever. My point stands. Cordy’s gonna be okay – just bumps and bruises.”

“And a concussion,” Will interjected. “And lack of any communication with Xander.”

Buffy nodded sadly. “What about you and Oz?”

Willow shook her head. “I never knew there was anything inside me that could feel this bad. For the longest time, I didn't know what I wanted. I wanted everything. And now... I just... I just want him to talk to me again, but I totally can’t blame him if he never does.”

“He will,” Buffy assured her. “He cares for you a lot. He just needs some time… and possibly groveling.”

“I can grovel. I’m all over the groveling, but he trusted me and I just… I broke it. It’s all Humpty-Dumptied and there aren’t even any king’s men, let alone horses, and I don’t know if it can be fixed,” Willow admitted.

“I’m so sorry,” the Slayer said gently, stopping and pulling her friend into a hug.

“I feel so dirty,” Willow admitted, accepting the hug, burying her face against the Slayer’s shoulder. “I’m a rotten cheater! A floozy! A harlot! A homewrecker! I should have a scarlet ‘A’ on my chest! Oz should never speak to me again!”

“A homewrecker? I didn’t know Cordy and Xan had started picking out china patterns,” Buffy teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“You know what I mean,” Willow sniffed morosely, pulling back to look at Buffy. “I suck.”

“You don’t suck. And you aren’t a bad person. You just…” Buffy didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound judgmental, and she wasn’t judging. She was not a judge of anything… Okay, well maybe Faith’s slaying habits, or lack thereof, but absolutely not the judge of relationship problems. “You just made a mistake,” she decided after a small pause, unable to think of anything else.

“Yeah, over and over and over again,” Willow sighed, and they started walking again.

“I know just what you need,” Buffy offered brightly, hooking her arm in her friend’s.

“A thousand lashes?”

“Noooo… hot cocoa and doggie cuddles…oh! And Ben & Jerry’s. Helps me every time!” she announced. “C’mon,” the Slayer encouraged, pulling Willow ahead more quickly. “You’re coming home with me.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy woke the next morning thankful that it was a Saturday. She felt a bit hung over from alternately laughing and crying for hours the night before, sharing secrets, and pints of ice cream, into the wee hours of the morning with her best girlfriend. Willow had told her all about her illicit, ‘Scarlet Letter’ kissage with Xander, about how they’d stopped for a while – mostly – but then the snow was so pretty, and so romantic and it seemed like the stoppage just made the restart worse. So, the witch had planned to do a de-lusting spell, but it had all gone sideways when ‘one last time’ went on way too long.

Buffy told her about some of the juicier details of her trip with Spike-the-vampire. Like the night they had to share a room. “So, he comes out of the bathroom all glistening wet – head to toe,” Buffy had related. “Water dripping everywhere, with nothing on but a _towel_!”

“On his head?” Willow teased.

“Willow!” Buffy gasped, laughing. “Around his hips! Which, I guess you could say covered his _head_ ,” she admitted, making both girls giggle.

“Did you know he has super-adorable curls?” Buffy continued confidentially.

Willow arched a brow. “I thought you said the towel covered his curls.”

“I wasn’t talking about those!” Buffy screeched, turning red. “But, I can confirm that he’s a natural brunette,” she revealed, grinning. “He’s got some really nice muscles, and his skin is just, like, perfect. He could totally model for one of those Greek statues… you know what I mean? But, you haven’t heard the best part!”

“He’s as hairy as a Sasquatch? Has piercings? Tattoos? Warts? A ‘666’ birthmark? Three nipples?” Willow guessed.

“No! None of the above! He dropped the towel!” Buffy exclaimed, her eyes wide.

“Oh, my God! You got the Full Monty?” Willow pressed, her own eyes wide. “Front or back?”

“Front!” Buffy squeaked. “But only for, like, a second – I turned my back on him,” she admitted.

“Stupid! Stupid girl!” Willow chastised, smacking Buffy on the arm. “But you saw…”

“I saw…” Buffy moaned, a dreamy glint in her eyes. “There was much seeing!”

Buffy chuckled a little to herself with the memory – both of relating the story and the actual Full Monty experience – as she rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty and swollen. She yawned widely, trying to decide if she really wanted to get up or not. Her mom must’ve let Spike out that morning and fed him, since his cold nose hadn’t nudged her awake at the break of ‘way-too-early’ like normal.

“Thank you, Mom,” she muttered, turning her back on the window and the light streaming in, preparing to take a little nap before braving the day. Something unfamiliar on her dresser caught her eye and she rubbed them again, clearing the blurriness from her vision. Her brow furrowed as she tried to focus on the shiny photo that was propped up against her mirror and figure out what it was.

She blinked.

Not a photo.

A postcard.

Buffy threw the covers off and was across the short space in a heartbeat, snatching up the card from the dresser. Her heart did that little pitter-patter thing it had been doing every time one of Spike’s cards arrived, her breath catching in her throat with giddy excitement.

She studied the picture first, has had become her habit, taking in the scene. This one was from the Bay of Banderas, which she’d have to look up on her map, since she’d never heard of it. It was a photo of a wave breaking. The water beneath the crest was glass-smooth, glittering brightly with the reflected sun. The shades of orange and yellow sunlight turned the water into shimmering spun gold, or perhaps liquid fire. In contrast, the mist from the peak of the wave flowed back from the curl, a velvety counterpoint to the silken water. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50859210253/in/dateposted-public/)

Buffy was almost afraid to turn it over and see who this one was to. Cujo? Giles? Willow? Xander? Angel? She’d ruled out her mom, figuring if it were for Joyce, she wouldn’t have brought it in and left it for Buffy. Unless… unless she just was being nice and sharing it, letting Buffy read it like Joyce read the others.

Buffy sighed, running her hand over the glossy picture. She shouldn’t want this to be for her. She shouldn’t feel so excited when Spike sent her a card. She shouldn’t think about him picking it out, about his hands, or his muscles, or his smirk, and most definitely not about his curls. The blond ones or the brunette ones!

Buffy went back and plopped down on her bed with the card, leaning back against the headboard, still not turning it over. Fact one: Spike loved Drusilla. There was no doubt about this – it was indisputable, undeniable, irrefutable. Fact two: Buffy was not a ‘homewrecker’, as Willow had put it. She was not her dad or Willow and Xander, for that matter. And, despite Spike’s natural pigginess, innuendos and lewd suggestions, she was sure he wasn’t either. Fact three: He was a soulless vampire and she was the Slayer and he’d promised to kill her the next time he saw her. Which, not happening – cos he would totally be dust, but, whatever. Oil and water. Pineapple and pizza. Plaids and polka-dots. These things were unmixy.

So, why had she gotten all tingly and giggly telling Willow about her adventures with him? Why had she looked around for him when Angel was talking to the dog in the cemetery a few weeks ago? Why had she imagined dancing with him at the Bronze instead of Angel on that ‘one last dance’? Why did she feel so special when he sent a stupid postcard?

She shouldn’t! It was wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong! They were temporary mission allies and permanent mortal enemies and they hated each other. And that’s all there was to it.

Anyway, maybe this postcard wasn’t even to her.

“Damn it,” she muttered, turning it over to find her name alone in the address section. _‘Made me think of you, Goldilocks. HYYF –S’_

Tears stung Buffy’s eyes and she leaned her head back, closing them against the myriad of emotions that swirled through her. Was he trying to make her insane? Was that his new plan for killing her? Make her drop her guard so he could just walk up and bite her the next time they crossed paths? Fucking vampires. Evil… that’s what it was. He was just plain evil.

Buffy clenched her jaw, opening her eyes to look back down at the card. “That’s so not happening, buster!” she informed it, tapping it against the heel of her palm. “I’m not falling for more vampire tricks. Not this girl, so you can just forget it! Whatever your stupid plan is, it’s not working. At all. I mean it. Zero working of evil plan.”

She nodded confidently, but her eyes slid over the words again and again… _Made me think of you. Made me think of you. Made me think of you._

Buffy forced her eyes over to the bedside table and the slip of paper by the phone. “ _Hmph_!” she grunted, setting the card down on the bed as she reached for the phone and the note. “I’m _not_ thinking of _you_ ,” she muttered to the card, dialing the number that had been scribbled on the paper. “At all.”

The phone rang, a male voice picking up on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Percy?” Buffy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Uh, it’s Buffy…” she stammered, suddenly a little nervous.

“Buffy?” he repeated, sounding confused.

“Buffy Summers?” she offered tentatively. Did he really not remember her from the non-bowling fiasco? It was like two days ago.

“From school?” he asked.

Her brows went up. How many Buffy Summers did he know? “Yeah, from school. Listen,” she continued. “You mentioned maybe wanting to go out sometime?” she hinted.

“Oh, yeah, totally,” he replied.

Buffy waited a beat, then two. When he didn’t say anything further, she tried, “Uh, so, did you have any particular ‘sometime’ in mind?”

“Oh! Yeah, sure. How about tonight?” he suggested.

“Great! What time? Casual or dressy?” she wondered.

“Say, six? Casual?” Percy provided.

“Great! You want me to meet you or…”

“I’ll pick you up. You’re on Revello, right?” the jock confirmed.

“1630,” Buffy provided. “See you at six?”

“Cool!” he said and hung up.

“Cool,” Buffy muttered into the dead receiver. She pulled it back, staring at it, and rolled her eyes before hanging it up. ‘ _Spike would so not end a phone conversation like that.’_

“Gah!” she exclaimed, flopping down onto the bed and pulling the covers all the way over her head to block the light. “No more thinking about Spike!” she admonished, forcefully adjusting her pillow and flopping around a bit to get comfortable again.

She didn’t notice her hand settling gently over the postcard as she fell back to sleep. _‘Made me think of you, Goldilocks. HYYF –S’_

* * *

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, or would like to see it larger, you can[find it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kujU4r).**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50860020167/in/dateposted-public/)

Oh, and so you don't have to look up where Spike and Dru are now (unlike poor Buffy), here is the Bay of Banderas (Bahía de Banderas or Bay of Flags) (If you can't see the photo, it is Puerto Vallarta )

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50860005431/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I've been loving all the positive comments and 'likes' the story is getting! I really can't tell you how much each and every one of them means to me!


	7. Dates with Disaster, Part 1 (Mexico)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike and Dru have left the Yucatan and traveled across Mexico to the Bay of Banderas (Puerto Vallarta) while we've been in Sunnydale following Buffy. Although there are dances in the town plaza in Puerto Vallarta in front of the Church of Guadalupe a couple of nights a week, I mostly fictionalized the décor, band, etc. I've never been there, all info I used is from online sources, so forgive me if anything is inaccurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Remember, this is season 3 Spike. Soulless and unchipped. He is a vampire. He kills people. He’s with Dru, and he is trying desperately to make things work with her. They both have tempers that can get out of hand. This is what I warned about in the story notes at the beginning – evil Spike. There is also Sprusilla sex in this chapter, though not graphicly described.

**_[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50791321588/in/dateposted-public/) _ **

* * *

**_Puerto Vallarta, Mexico_ **

“Oh, my Spike … it’s beautiful,” Dru breathed, her eyes glittering as they entered the town plaza arm-in-arm. Above them, strings of colorful electric lanterns crisscrossed the square, which was framed on one end by the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe and by El Malecon – the esplanade, or beach walk – and the Pacific Ocean, on the other. The bandstand in the center had a traditional Mariachi band playing, heavy on the horns and guitars, and couples filled the open area, dancing to the Latin beats beneath the stars.

Dru began moving to the music as they slid into the crowd, her eyes fluttering closed as she lost herself in the sound. “I can taste the colors, my Spike,” she breathed, turning in a circle in front of him, her hips swaying to the syncopated rhythm. “They come in through my hair… red and black, taste like cinnamon and cloves… it glitters brassy and bright… can you hear it?”

“I hear it, baby,” Spike agreed, watching her eagerly. She’d been looking forward to this all day, and he was relieved to see that it was living up to her expectations. Dru had been better since Chichén Itzá – giving him her full attention. Well, maybe not her _full_ attention – the pixies and jaguar spirits still got their share – but she hadn’t been screwing around, at least. Still, Spike kept one of her hands gripped tightly in his, not wanting a repeat of Mexico City.

“It’s calling me. Warm and sweet on the tip of my tongue. Innocent and pious,” Dru continued, opening her eyes and looking toward the large cathedral at the end of the square. The ornate façade was lit by soft, golden light, highlighting the brick walls, arches, stained-glass windows, and lofty towers. The bell tower in the center of the church was the tallest of three, and was topped by a large, stunningly intricate filigree crown hoisted upon high by four golden angels.

Spike followed her gaze and saw a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, emerge from the church dressed all in white, including a lacy veil.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Dru tittered as she began moving through the crowd, sinuous and graceful, toward the church and the girl, dragging Spike along in her wake. 

“Dru, kitten,” Spike called, pulling her to a halt. “Time enough for that later, yeah? Dance with me… come feel the music, luv,” he encouraged, taking her into his arms.

Dru pouted, looking back at the girl who was making her way away from the square and into the darker streets of the town.

“Love dancing with you, baby,” Spike purred against her ear, drawing her with him despite her hesitancy. “Can’t ya taste it? Cloves and cinnamon?” he prompted, dropping soft nibbles and kisses from her shoulder to her ear.

“Forgive him, Father, for he knows not what he does,” she murmured as she gave in to Spike’s attentions, and fell into step with him, her body like an extension of his own, tasting the beat, taking it in, becoming one with it. They melded perfectly into the flow of the other dancers as if the vampires had been born with Latin blood in their veins.

Spike savored the feel of his sire against him, delighting in her lithe, strong body, relishing the way she moved, the way her hips undulated with the dance, driving him mad in the best possible way. She was whole and healthy, strong and vital, a force of vibrant darkness, like before Prague. His dark princess. His queen. His destiny. Right here in his arms with the whole world at their feet. It was all he’d ever wanted.

So why did he feel an odd quivering in his stomach when he saw a flash of long, blonde hair in the crowd? Why did he have to maneuver them toward the girl? Why did he have to see, to just make sure… though it couldn’t be. He knew it couldn’t. The Slayer wouldn’t follow him to Mexico… would she?

“The sunshine is held tight, stake at her back and fire at her feet. No escape from the cows that moo with unseeing eyes,” Drusilla told him, drawing his gaze back to hers.

_‘What the bloody fuck?’_ he thought, rolling his eyes. “Just makin’ sure, pet. Don’t need to be caught off guard, yeah? Bloody bitch can be right stubborn and sneaky when she has a mind to,” Spike excused as he got close enough to see and scent the girl – a tourist joining in the dance, just like they were. Not the Slayer. The excited butterflies turned to a ball of disappointment in his abdomen. Not the Slayer. Not Buffy.

“The raven still owns the dark. Dance with me, my prince… the night calls,” Dru murmured.

Spike smiled at her, his hands gripping her hips and jerking her body against his. “Dance for all eternity with you, pet,” he promised, his mouth closing over hers in a sultry kiss beneath the stars.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“The sea roars in beautiful whispers, Spike, do you hear?” Dru asked later as they strolled long the Malecon, hand in hand. “It chews the pebbles, sips the sand, and pirouettes beneath the winter moon.”

“I hear it, luv. Not as beautiful as your whispers… or screams,” he flirted, leaning in to nuzzle a kiss against her earlobe. “My dark princess outshines them all.”

Dru giggled and twirled away from him, only to be brought up short by his grip and pulled back in a graceful spin. “What next, my princess? Could walk out on the pier or have a bite,” he suggested, waving a hand at the innumerable street vendors.

The peddlers were scattered around the plaza and up and down the beach walk, some selling souvenirs, but most selling street food. The aromas of the grilling meats, onions, and peppers mingled with the spice of each vendor’s proprietary salsa, filling the air with a mouth-watering fragrance. There were tamales, tacos, quesadillas, huaraches, gorditas, and burritos. There was roasted chicken, grilled beef, goat, pork, and fish, as well as fresh seafood cocktails. And for dessert there were fresh, warm, mouth-watering churros for a peso each from ‘The Famous Churro Man.’ Maybe he could talk his sire into trying them this time.

Spiked pulled Dru over to one of the stands and watched a moment as they created two carne asada quesadillas for a young couple who were clearly on their honeymoon. “Looks good, eh, pet?” Spike asked, holding Dru’s back to his front, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“The meat hisses in such sweet pain… sizzling the life from its bones,” she agreed. Or, at least Spike took it for agreement.

“Lotsa cheese on ‘em, not like some I’ve seen,” he continued. “Get a couple o’ those, then, yeah?” he suggested, digging in a pocket for some pesos.

“Spike?” Dru asked in a childlike voice. “Am I to die before the moon sets?”

“What?” he retorted, his voice rising a couple of octaves. “’Course not, luv. Your dark knight’s here to protect you.” And then he froze, his hand halfway out of his pocket with the dosh. “Bugger,” he muttered, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw in annoyance and frustration. “Sorry, pet, wasn’t thinkin’…” he apologized, shoving the cash back down and withdrawing his empty hand.

“Thinking’s a funny thing, my Spike. Little golden goblin’s skittering about in the sunshine, popping up to have a look at the moon,” Dru suggested, turning to look at him. She sank the fingers of both hands into his hair, running her nails lightly over his scalp. “No plastic nor wires, but she’s leashed you all the same. Try to keep her locked away, but she’s there… always waitin’. Innit that right, sweet William?”

“Not leashed! Got nothing to do with the sodding Slayer, Dru,” he contended, pulling her scratching nails from his head. “Just forgot, is all.”

“Can’t abide cheese,” Dru reminded him. “Makes me all weebly-wobbly on the insides.”

“Know that, don’t I? Just forgot,” he excused again, cursing himself for his stupidity. How could he forget that? Been that way for decades, since that time they’d eaten that fromager and his entire extended family in Aquitaine in the ‘50s. Just looked good is all and he got carried away. Didn’t have a bleeding thing to do with the Slayer and her depraved cheese fetish. “Don’t make a bleedin’ mountain outta a molehill. Just get something else, we will.”

“I think I’d like _that_ …” Dru suggested, her eyes settling on a spot over Spike’s shoulder. “Her dress is lovely, innit?” the dark vampire asked, eying a svelte, twenty-something who was wearing a backless, black dress made of floral lace, fitted at the top but falling from her waist in waves, flowing down nearly to her ankles. 

Spike turned and followed her gaze. “Very fetching,” he agreed.

“I could wear it to the ball and all the teacups would be so jealous,” she continued. “Can I have it, Spike? I’d love it, ever so much,” Dru wheedled.

“Anything for you, sweets,” Spike agreed, happy to get out of the great cheese debacle so easily. “Wait here, pet… be right back.”

He left her with a kiss to the cheek and sauntered up to the girl in question, who was looking out at the moon shining over the ocean. Dru waited with giddy anticipation as her prince charmed the girl, making her giggle and blush. An innocent touch here, a subtle leaning in there, a boyish grin, a lusty leer, a genuine compliment, a sexy suggestion, a nervous laugh, a nod, a hand splayed on the tanned, bare skin of her back as they slipped away into the dark. The vampiress waited as long as the pixies and jaguar spirits allowed, clapping to herself and bouncing on her toes. Finally, she followed, off the softly-lit promenade, moving inland, where there were fewer eyes and often only moonlight for a guide.

Drusilla found her dark knight emerging from the shadows behind a restaurant, the lovely lace dress in hand and a satisfied smirk on his lips. “For you, my wicked plum,” he offered, holding the dress out to her.

Dru stopped short, her brows furrowing as she searched the darkness behind him. “But… where’s the honeyed sweetbread that was in it?”

Spike’s brows went up, his eyes widening. “Didn’t say anything ‘bout the girl, pet. Thought you wanted the frock.” He offered it to her again, unfurling it so she could see it.

“Didn’t want the hollow dress, Spike,” Dru objected querulously. “Wanted the pretty girl in the dress. She smelled of toffee and sunflowers.”

“Didn’t know, did I?” Spike defended. “We’ll find ya another, yeah?”

Drusilla let out a painful yowl and launched herself at him, nails raking over flesh, fangs snapping. “Shan’t abide fibs and fantasies! No masks allowed at the ball!” she shrieked, knocking Spike back against a wall as she continued her assault.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, half in surprise and half in pain as he raised his arms to defend himself.

“Pretty little liars must pay the piper!” she continued as Spike tried to grab her hands and push her back. “The ferryman demands his due!”

“Stop it! Bloody fuck, Dru! Stop!” he demanded, ducking away from her as blood ran into his eyes from the gouges she’d inflicted on his face.

“Bad doggie!” she chastised. “Rolls over for his treats, snapping up crumbs, but it’s time for tricks and mischiefs and monsters in the night. My deadly boy still dances in the dark, with me! Still bathes in blood! With me!”

“Told ya I’d find ya another one!” Spike reminded her, wiping the blood from his face.

“Like yesternight? And the night afore that?” she hissed bitterly, stalking forward toward her childe.

Spike kept pace, stepping back with each of her steps forward. “’Course, pet. Plenty o’ toffee and sunflowers to choose from.”

Dru picked up a tequila bottle from the ground and hurled it at him. It sailed past when he ducked, shattering on the wall further down the alley. “Not had toffee and sweetbreads for an age! Didn’t like the old man we ‘ad yesterday, nor the rancid one ‘fore that, nor the sour one, the bitter one, the one that smelled of poppies, nor the diablo at the river!” she complained angrily.

“Dru—” he tried, but she kept talking over him.

“The spirits of the ancient kitties purred their secrets in my ears. Told me of your nights alone beneath the shadow of the temple – of hunting rancid prey in paper wrappers!” she accused furiously. “Not made to sup putrid droplets from plastic cups!”

“Oh, balls,” he groaned, realizing exactly what she was talking about – the bodega near Chichén Itzá – he’d nicked fags and booze, and a couple of postcards, but he’d bought the blood… more than once. “Just had the butcher’s blood in Pisté cos you wanted to stay there for a bit, running with the bleeding jaguars. How many Happy Meals you reckon I could’a taken ‘fore they got wise to us, eh? Couldn’t stay if I’m slaughtering the populace like cattle, now could we?” he reasoned. “Was just trying to keep a low profile, for you, luv. All for you.”

“Ashes and shackles!” she spat at him. “You bow at her feet from a world away!”

Spike sighed and stepped back a bit further from her. “Not bowing at anybody’s feet, for fuck’s sake. Do you not remember Mexico City?” he asked in exasperation.

“I remember dancing rainbows and sweet blood full of fire and rubies,” she replied, her eyes narrowing accusingly at him.

“Yeah, well, I remember barely escaping with our unlives,” he retorted. “Not overly fond o’ running like a sodding coward… less fond of dusting.”

Dru’s eyes flashed with golden fire. “My deadly monster fades day by day in the sunshine… like dewdrops from dandelions. I shan’t abide shattered promises from my dark knight!” she warned. “The sunshine’s stolen the monster before my turn is done! I shan’t allow it!”

“You sayin’ I’m not monster enough for ya?” Spike growled, his anger flaring as he reversed his steps and moved forward, toward his enraged sire.

“Too afraid of the golden goblin and her bitty splinters of timber. Won’t taste the smooth toffee nor the pious fawn!” she accused. “Only touches the lost and lonely, who have nothing but vinegar in their veins, or the eyeless cows who rot beneath the butcher’s hammer!” 

“Me? Afraid of the Slayer?! That’s rubbish, and you know it!” he asserted, jabbing a finger at her. “Just trying to keep you safe, you daft bint!”

“Monster’s gone soft! Soft in the middle, soft in the head, soft in the ribcage, soft in the bed!” she spat.

“SOFT!? SOFT!? I’LL SHOW YOU BLOODY SOFT!” he snarled furiously, closing the short distance between them with blinding speed. He gripped her upper arms with bruising force and slammed her back against the wall, Dru’s head ‘thunking’ like a hollow melon. “This hard enough for ya, then?! Monster enough now, am I?” he demanded through clenched teeth, banging her over and over again against the brick.

“I WANT TOFFEE AND SUNFLOWERS!” she screamed at him, scratching at his face and neck with her sharp nails.

“FINE!” Spike bellowed back at her. “Get you the sodding bitch!” he agreed, tossing her one last time against the unforgiving wall and striding away, duster flaring behind him, back into the deepest shadows of the night.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“B-but you said…” the girl stammered through her tears as Spike hauled her forward by her long, dark hair. “Y-you said I could go… if I gave you the dress… you said…”

“Shut the fuck up!” he barked at her, yanking harder and nearly making her fall. She hadn’t gotten far. He hadn’t expected she would’ve, being nearly naked and all. Just made it a couple of blocks, trying to keep to the shadows, making her way back to her hotel without being seen. American, by the accent and the scent.

“You’re S-Spike, right? M-my name’s Lisa, do you remember? I told you? I-I’m from Denver,” she tried then, remembering hearing something about making yourself human to an attacker, that it would… do something. Make them see you as a person and maybe… let you go?

Spike snorted. “I remember… were looking for a bad-boy. Reckon you found ‘im, _Lisa_ ,” he sneered, tugging her along behind him.

Lisa’s heart was about to beat out of her chest as she tried to pull free. She tried to think of something to say to get away, but panic flooded her, making it hard to do more than lurch forward behind the angry man. He was so strong! She’d always thought she was strong – growing up on a working ranch built plenty of muscle – but she felt like a tiny bird caught in the jaws of a lion.

“I-I have a brother, Jake… a year older a-and he… he goes to Duke, a-and a little sister… she’s only twelve, Jillie. She… she was the big surprise baby a-and she plays it up – she’s so spoiled,” she rambled. “They’re home… in Denver… or really outside Denver, but no one knows Fairplay—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Spike ordered, jerking her hard enough to make her fall.

Lisa cried out when her bare knees hit the dirty pavement, trying desperately to get back to her feet when the vampire began dragging her along by her hair. “Please!” she begged through her tears, as hair was ripped from her scalp and the skin from her legs “Money!” she blurted suddenly, struggling to find her feet again. “M-my father will pay you! He’s rich and—”

“Don’t need your soddin’ money,” Spike grunted, yanking her back up to her feet and eliciting another shriek of pain from her.

“ _Ahh_! That hurts! Please stop!” she pleaded, her hands wrapped in her dark hair beneath Spike’s, trying to ease the pressure on her scalp as she stumbled along in his wake.

“Yeah, well, reckon it won’t hurt for much longer,” the vampire assured her acidly.

“Please!” she begged again. “It’s not fair!”

“Give the girl a Kewpie doll – learned the first lesson o’ life – it’s not bloody fair,” Spike quipped joylessly as he emerged from the blackness between buildings to where Dru waited, bathed in the light of the moon. “And, just in time, too.”

“J-just in time?” Lisa stuttered, trying to look around, but Spike’s grip kept her face pointed mostly toward the ground.

“Just in time to let St. Peter know ya figured it out,” he told her, jerking her forward and flinging her at Dru. “Toffee and sunflowers, as requested,” he announced angrily.

The girl screamed as more wads of hair were ripped from her scalp with the motion, trying to get her balance as she sailed momentarily through open air. Free! Was she free? Had he let her go? But no. More arms, strong as steel bands, wrapped around her, compressing her chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Oh, my Spike,” Drusilla purred, all her anger apparently forgotten as she pulled the trembling, crying girl into a reverent embrace. “She’s perfect,” the vampiress continued, running one hand down from the girl’s bare, round breast to her flat stomach and over the smooth curve of her hip and the lacy panties that covered her sex. Dru sniffed her neck, breathing in as if smelling the sweetness of a rose, then ran her tongue over her salty skin, tasting her.

“Please… please no,” Lisa gasped, barely able to find enough air. She struggled against her captor, her eyes filled with tears as she looked up to see Spike standing a few feet away. He met her eyes for a moment — only a moment — but then looked away. “S-Spike…” she begged, not knowing what else to do, but her breathless, pleading voice was drowned out by the woman behind her.

“Come see, Spike. Come out of the light, have a taste, bathe in the blood with your princess,” Drusilla invited as the girl squirmed and fought fruitlessly against her grip.

Spike stood rooted to the spot, hands planted on his hips, his blood boiling, panting for air as if he actually needed to breathe. He hadn’t noticed before. The girl’s eyes were green. Green like… He clenched his jaw, forcing the image of other green eyes filled with tears from his mind. He felt like his chest was being torn apart from the inside, his demon clamoring for the hot, sweet blood, but some other, long forgotten, buried part of him fighting to hold it back.

Drusilla looked up at him, her golden eyes shining with avarice. “Come, William… back into the dark where you belong, with me.”

Spike lifted his head to the sky and howled in frustration, every tendon and muscle in his body tightening into whipcords stretched to their limits. As the howl died, something inside him snapped with a growl that reverberated up and down the narrow backstreet. He was on the pair in one of Lisa’s fluttering heartbeats, his demon emerging, saffron eyes ravenous.

“No…” Lisa breathed, her last vision was that of a monster, her last sensation was of two sets of fangs sinking into her flesh, her last thought of her family. _‘It’s not fair.’_

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

When the girl slid lifelessly to the filthy ground of the alleyway like so much garbage, Spike and Dru attacked each other, ripping and ravening, biting and tearing, fucking with demonic fervor. They toppled cans of refuse, dented parked cars, and crumbled brick walls as they joined and parted and attacked again, the terrifying sounds of two wild animals fucking to the death keeping the humans away.

Bruised and bloodied and coated with each other’s juices, they emerged from the darkness into the moonlight. Lisa lay sprawled there, still and cold, her rosy color drained to ashes, her green eyes open but unseeing, looking up at the stars. Dru spun and whirled, a lilting hum joining the dance around the body. Her dress was shredded, her skin bruised and bloodied, and Spike’s cum slid down her thighs – and she was as joyful as a child on Christmas morning.

She found Lisa’s dress, dropped and forgotten on the pavement, and picked it up, holding it up against her chest and twirling around, giggling gleefully. The dark vampiress danced her way back over to Spike, her chest slamming against his as she wrapped one arm around his neck and captured his lips with a fevered kiss.

“My monster lives,” she purred against his mouth before twirling away again and sashaying from the alley, still tittering and hugging the dress to her chest. “My sweet deadly boy… the sunshine shan’t take him… not until the raven sets him free,” she murmured as she disappeared from view.

Spike stood and watched her go, an inexplicable cavern of emptiness opening inside. He sighed and looked down at the dead, broken girl. She had been beautiful, with long raven locks, skin tanned golden by the sun, and green eyes. Green eyes that stared up at him in disgust. Green eyes that accused and castigated. Green eyes full of hatred. _‘My name is Lisa.’_

He flicked his gaze back up the street to where Dru had disappeared, that cavern crumbling in on itself. “That monster enough for ya, then?” he muttered after his sire, his jaw clenching in renewed anger and frustration and confusion. “Bloody fucking women. Always playin’ games… mucking with your mind,” he growled, looking around for his duster, which had been lost in the melee. He stomped over to it and tugged it on, covering his ripped and ravaged clothes and the blood that seeped from gouges down his back, chest, and arms. _“’My sweet William’,”_ he mocked Dru, raising his voice to a falsetto. “Sweet William, Savage Spike – what the bloody fuck do you want from me!?” he demanded to the empty air, tears welling in his blue eyes as he looked down at the dead girl.

Lisa. From Denver… no, Fairplay. He snorted mirthlessly.

_‘It’s not fair.’_

Spike dropped his head back, his face to the sky, and closed his eyes, forcing back the threatening tears. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was a vampire! A demon. A monster! Dead girls were a dime a dozen! Lisa had gotten off easy – Dru hadn’t even asked to keep her as a dolly, had only tasted her blood. So what the fuck was the sodding problem?!

“It’s that bloody Slayer!” he decided, opening his eyes and kicking a metal trash can down the passage. It clanged loudly, bouncing off the walls before coming to a juddering rest. “Wriggled into your skull like a sodding worm, eating your brain! No more! No fucking more!” he insisted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his duster as he began stalking after his sire.

He stopped dead. His left hand came out with a postcard he’d nicked earlier. His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw ticking with anger. Digging through the inner pockets of his duster he found his pen and began scribbling on the card madly, using the top of a dumpster as a writing desk. The postcard ripped in a couple of places with the effort, the pen nearly tearing all the way through the thick cardboard. He glared at it when he was done, scribbled again, hard enough to break the pen, ink spewing from the end and splattering it like blood.

Spike tossed away the pen and grabbed up the card, stomping out of the moonlight and back into the shadows. Into the dark. Where he belonged. With Dru.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Story Board**

**If you have downloaded this Chapter and can't see the photo, you can** [ **see it at this link.** ](https://flic.kr/p/2kuNCEt)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50865431511/in/dateposted-public/)

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**End Notes:**

Thank you so much for reading! I've been loving all the positive comments and 'likes' the story is getting! I really can't tell you how much each and every one of them means to me! 

Spike's getting pushed and pushed... how much can he take? Well, we know the answer to that -- a LOT! Hang in there!

This chapter and the next were one large chapter when I first wrote it: Spike's date with Dru and Buffy's with Percy. Let's hope Buffy's goes better! It will be the next chapter.

Did you guys catch the meaning of this from Dru? _"The sunshine is held tight, stake at her back and fire at her feet. No escape from the cows that moo with unseeing eyes.”_ Hint: Mothers Opposed to the Occult = MOO 

If you ever have any questions about Dru's meaning, feel free to ask. I know what she's saying, but I'm not always sure it's decipherable by anyone else! LOL! 

As always, my undying gratitude goes out to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and keeping me from wandering off into the woods.


	8. Dates with Disaster, Part 2 (Sunnydale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a little early because these two parts were originally one chapter, so thought it only fair to post a bit early. Someone will show up in here that you may not expect; don't let it throw you. I'll explain my logic at the end.
> 
> Reminder that the 'Spike' who is in Sunnydale in this episode is the doggie, even if people talk to him like he’s a person.
> 
> Warning! There is a date-rape scenario in here toward the end. It doesn't get far at all, but I thought I should warn in case that is a trigger for you.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, like cheese fries for my muse!
> 
> As always, my everlasting gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and for all their efforts to keep me from wandering too far off the plot.

* * *

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy leaned in near the dressing mirror and applied her lip gloss, dabbing away a bit of excess that gathered at the corner of her mouth. She stood back and examined herself in the full-length closet mirror, toe to head. Kicky black boots? Check. Cute red skater’s skirt? Check. Lacy, sleeveless white top? Check. Red jacket that matched the skirt? Check. Teeth fresh and clean? Check. Make-up? Check. Hair…? She’d left it down, but maybe she should put it up? She lifted it off her shoulders and studied the effect, then let it fall again, twisting her glossy lips in thought.

“What do you think?” she asked her companion, lifting it back up again and turning to face him. “Up?” She dropped it again. “Or down?”

Spike looked at her, tilting his head, considering carefully.

“Up,” she said again, lifting it into a ponytail, waiting.

Spike shook his head, rattling his tags.

“Down it is,” she agreed, fluffing it out around her shoulders as she checked the time. Percy was late. Of course, she was late too, but that was fashionable. The guy being late to pick you up? Sooo not fashionable.

“How do I look?” she asked her friend.

“Whoof!” he replied, standing up with a grunt of effort. His tail began wagging as he padded slowly over and licked her hand.

“I think you’re biased since I feed you,” she observed. “But I’m willing to ignore that if you are.”

“Whoof!” he agreed, fanning his tail so hard the curtains began to billow.

Buffy laughed and gave him a well-deserved ear scratching. “Remind me to up your rations… I think you’ve earned it.”

Spike leaned against her legs, his mouth dropping open joyfully as his tail began tapping out a double-time military march on the foot of the bed. Buffy was about to warn him about the frailness of the bedstead when the doorbell rang. “Well, look who decided to show up,” she complained, checking the clock again. What good is it being fashionably late when your date isn’t there to appreciate it?

Buffy hadn’t even picked up her purse yet when Spike rushed away, but she caught up with him on the stairs only a moment later as he made his way slowly down them.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him teasingly. “Afraid of a teenaged boy? Need me to protect you?”

Spike whined and started to go a bit faster, trying to beat her to the door, but he stumbled and nearly fell.

“Whoa! Looks like someone needs to cut back on biting drunken vampires,” she joked, helping to steady him.

Spike huffed indignantly, cutting her off to get to the door first, where he let out a warning bark, as was his sacred duty. The big dog’s muzzle and enormous head were the first things Percy saw when Buffy opened the door. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, jumping back and nearly falling down the porch steps. “What the hell is _that_?”

Buffy arched a brow. “My puppy,” she replied flatly. “Spike, this is Percy. Percy, this is Spike,” she introduced them.

Spike took a step forward and sniffed the boy, giving him the once-over. He sneezed disdainfully, then pointedly walked past the jock and carefully down the steps to urinate on the front tire of his car.

“Hey! Call your stupid dog off!” Percy complained. “Those are custom wheels!”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Buffy lied. “Spike! Come on back in,” she called to him. Spike looked conflicted. There were still three more tires to mark, after all. “Spiiike,” she said warningly, holding the door open.

Spike huffed, but obeyed, giving Percy a narrow-eyed, warning look on his way by. Buffy whispered an admonishment to, “Be good,” before closing the door on the dog. She turned back to Percy, plastering on her best Colgate-smile. “Sorry about that,” she apologized meekly. “He has a weak bladder.”

“You should do something about it. I just polished that chrome,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” Buffy repeated, starting down the steps toward the car, but Percy seemed to hesitate.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, looking her up and down.

Buffy turned back, looked down at herself, then at him. He had on jeans and a blue, gold, and white UCLA football jersey. She certainly wasn’t underdressed… or overdressed. He’d said casual. She was casual. “Yeah, why?”

He seemed to shake himself and shrug. “Nothing… free country, right?”

_‘Well, thanks. So glad I spent an hour debating what to wear,’_ she grumbled mentally. ‘ _My dog has better manners!’_ Buffy then congratulated herself on _not_ thinking about Spike… or not the vampire one, at least. See? Progress already!

Aloud, she mock-cheered, “Yay for the constitution.” When Percy didn’t say or do anything more, she suggested, “Should we, you know, make like a tree and motor?”

Percy blinked, looked at the trees in the yard, then back at Buffy, who just raised her brows. “Yeah, totally… uh, motoring,” he agreed, still watching the trees suspiciously, being sure to give them a wide berth as he headed for the car.

Buffy snorted. Percy had clearly been in Sunnydale too long. As he came even with her on the walkway, she headed for the closer passenger door while he walked around the car to the driver’s side. She was fastening her seatbelt just as Percy was sliding in the car and pulling his door shut. A memory of Spike opening the door for Dru, of him taking her hand and helping her into and out of the car flashed in Buffy’s mind. She remembered him leaning in very close to Dru’s ear and saying something that made the vampiress laugh. It had been sweet.

‘ _No! It was stupid!’_ Buffy didn’t need help opening doors or getting in or out of cars. So why did she feel somehow cheated as she closed her own door with no charming, clever quip whispered in her ear to make her laugh? _‘Stupid vampire and his stupid old-fashioned shit. He needs to get with the times – it’s not the fourteenth century anymore. Probably never even heard of equal rights or feminism or Amelia Earhart, Gloria Steinem, Margaret Thatcher, Oprah Winfrey, or—or Betty White.’_

Buffy turned and looked at Percy. “Do you know who Amelia Earhart is?” she asked out of the blue.

He stopped and looked at her just before turning the key and starting the car. “Uh, the blonde in third period Biology, right?”

Buffy rolled her eyes but couldn’t reply because the next moment her eardrums were being bludgeoned into submission by something she supposed would be considered music in some of the more unpleasant hell dimensions. She winced, scrunching up her shoulders, and covered her ears with her hands.

“Great stuff, huh!?” Percy shouted over what Buffy assumed was a cat being strangled by an out-of-tune electric guitar.

She couldn’t quite stop grimacing, but she nodded. “Great,” she agreed as Percy put the car in reverse and shot out of the driveway at something approaching highway speeds. She thought for a moment that he would outrun the noise, but no such luck. “Where’s the fire?” she tried to ask as he screeched to a halt in the road then changed directions, the car roaring forward, tires squealing.

“Totally on fire!” he agreed, grinning and bobbing his head to the pounding of what felt like cannons going off in the backseat.

Buffy gave him another forced smile. On the plus side, she wouldn’t be able to hear anyone bitch at her about anything for at least a month.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Giles watched the car pull away, wincing at the god-awful racket emerging from it as it passed. He really needed to be more careful; Buffy could’ve seen him. Of course, he thought they would be long gone by now – stupid boy was late. Luckily, she’d been ducking for cover from the blaring music herself, not paying attention to cars parked along her street.

When the car with the teens was out of sight, but not yet out of earshot, Giles slipped from his Citroën and up the walk to 1630. Trying the front door, he found it open, as usual. He supposed Buffy thought it perfectly safe given the gigantic guard dog on duty within. Giles called out as he opened the door, “Hello! Buffy? Joyce?”

He only got the door open about a foot before it met something solid and heavy. He sighed. “Spike, do please move,” he requested, pushing his shoulder against the door. He slid the dog across the wood of the foyer several inches before the hound managed to make it to his feet.

“Joyce?!” Giles tried again, waiting a moment before deciding the house was empty but for the enormous dog.

“And how are we doing today?” he asked Spike, leaning down a bit to look at the animal’s brown eyes. The Watcher pulled back the dog’s eyelids and examined him closely for a few moments, then stood back up, apparently satisfied.

“I’ve some treats for you,” he announced, brandishing a bag of what looked like bits of beef jerky. “Let’s go out back, shall we?” he asked, waving the bag in front of the dog’s nose.

“Whoof!” Spike agreed, pushing past the man and heading for the kitchen.

Giles followed, then led him into the backyard where he and Buffy had set up an obstacle course for the dog some time ago. They’d created it to aid in his training before they knew his demon-hunting was an inbred instinct.

“Let’s see you walk across the teeter-totter, then… for a treat,” Giles instructed, walking over to the end of the tilting board that rested on the ground.

Spike followed, knowing all these little games by heart, and mounted the board, walking up until he was nearly at the apex, then slowing to let the board change angles, one end lifting as the other lowered. As the board began to move, he faltered, his balance wavering, and his feet went out from under him. He tumbled to the ground with a thud and a surprised bark of expelled breath.

Giles was at his side the next moment. “Are you hurt?” he inquired worriedly, looking the dog over.

Spike rattled his tags with a hard shake of his head and pushed up to his feet, looking up at the teeter-totter accusingly.

“It’s quite alright, I assure you. Everyone falters now and then,” Giles said, handing the dog one of the treats from his bag. “Now then, how about the tombstone leap?”

Giles tested the Guardian dog on several of the obstacles, none of which went well. Spike wasn’t as fast, couldn’t jump as high, grip with his jaws as hard, or keep his balance as well as he normally could. After each failure, Giles assured him it was something that would pass, that everyone went through these spells, and gave him another treat.

“We’ll just keep this between us, shall we?” the Watcher suggested as he and Spike went back in the house. “No need to alarm Buffy… I’m sure you’ll be fine again in a few days.”

Spike whined a dejected-sounding agreement, feeling unsteady on his feet.

“Fine then,” Giles concluded, giving him the last of the treats he’d brought. “I’ll check in on you again soon. No need to worry.”

Spike let out a pathetic sigh and slid down onto the floor of the kitchen, exhausted from the effort on the obstacle course.

“Just get some rest. I’ll let myself out,” the man told him, as he slipped away, unseen by anyone but the dog.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

When Percy’s “music” cut off with the motor, Buffy’s ears were ringing. They were in the parking lot of a restaurant she’d never been to before called ‘Glory Days Grill’, near the UC Sunnydale campus. From the look of the parking lot, it was a popular spot. From the look of the huge TVs that lined the wall of the patio dining area, it was a sports bar. Oh joy.

Buffy kept her fake smile glued on as she got out of the car and they walked up to the doors. “Do you come here a lot?” she asked Percy.

“Every game day,” he enthused. “They save us a table.”

“Us?” Buffy questioned.

“The team,” he replied cryptically.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “The chess team?”

Percy looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “No, the Sunnydale High football team.”

Buffy formed an ‘O’ with her lips and nodded. “Gotcha.”

As they got closer to the restaurant, she began to notice a distinct theme in the attire of the patrons. “Uh, why’s everyone in blue and yellow?” she wondered.

“It’s blue and _gold_ ,” he corrected. “Told you – it’s game day! UCLA! GOOOO BRUINS!” he cheered as they reached the door.

Buffy groaned, looking through the windows. Literally every single person was in blue and yellow … errr _gold_ , or some variation of those colors. Every. Single. Person. Except her. _‘Might’ve been helpful to know the color-scheme earlier.’_

Percy pulled the door open and nearly knocked Buffy down when she started to step through in front of him. Her smile turned caustic. _‘I don’t need anyone to open doors for me,’_ she reminded herself, jerking to a stop to let him enter before following the jock into a world of football fanaticism.

Buffy followed the brunette to a table in one corner where several other boys and a few girls, also wearing UCLA t-shirts and jerseys, were already seated. The boys greeted Percy with enthusiastic high-fives and fist-bumps and bruising backslaps as Buffy waited patiently to be introduced.

She wasn’t. Percy immersed himself immediately into a discussion of the game that was on the multitude of televisions as they all sat down. Buffy sighed, pulled a chair out, ( _‘I don’t need anyone to pull a chair out for me.’)_ and took the seat next to her so-called date.

Buffy gave a couple of the other girls at the table friendly smiles, but all she got were raised eyebrows and derisive snorts directed at her outfit. The Slayer looked around the place, noting that she was garnering the same contemptuous looks from other diners. It wasn’t until she noticed that the team playing against the blue and gold one on the TV was wearing – you guessed it – red and white. _‘What else can possibly go wrong?’_ she wondered.

As the evening wore on, Buffy tried to interject herself into the conversation whenever there was a lull. “Why did that stripey-guy throw that yellow hankie?” she asked Percy at one break, pointing at the TV.

Percy spared her a glance, then looked back at one of the screens. “Roughing the passer,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Ahhh,” Buffy droned, as if that explained everything. Wasn’t this football? Wasn’t the point to rough the other guy up? Geez, they had on fifty pounds of pads and a helmet – how roughed-up could they get? They should try fighting vampires or Fyarl demons or hyena-possessed teenagers with zero padding. Her brows furrowed. Maybe she should consider wearing a helmet. Buffy rolled her eyes. ‘ _Helmet hair… no thanks.’_

“Why did that guy catch the ball and then just stand there?” she wondered after a bit. “And no one roughed him?”

“He called a fair catch,” Percy explained over his shoulder.

“Oh… why don’t they just do that all the time and stop getting bashed up?”

“You can only call a fair catch on a kick,” the brunette clarified.

“Oh… But… sometimes they kick it through those yellow post-thingies… how do you fair catch that?”

Percy turned and looked at her in disbelief. “I thought you were a cheerleader.”

“I-I was… which meant I had my back to the field most of the time, you know… doing cheers?” Buffy pointed out.

Percy rolled his eyes. “Those yellow things are ‘goal posts’ and that’s a ‘field goal’, which is a completely different kind of kick,” he huffed impatiently, turning back to his friends, who started jibing him, mocking Buffy by asking Percy what Buffy assumed were inane questions, though they seemed reasonable to her.

Buffy’s mouth twisted into a scowl. ‘ _I thought you were a cheerleader,’_ she sneered, mocking Percy silently. “And I thought you had half a brain,” she muttered under her breath.

She looked around the place, wishing for some escape, when a flash of platinum blond hair caught her attention. ‘ _He wouldn’t dare come back,’_ she seethed silently, though her heart started doing that backflip, cartwheel-y thing again, and her pulse started to race. Her eyes were glued on the beacon of bleach at the bar, her hands reaching for her purse and the stake she had stowed there. _‘No way he’d come back. He’s in Mexico, heading for Brazil. With Dru. The love of his life. His destiny. He wouldn’t just leave her and come back for you._ _Would he? No… no… he…’_ Buffy’s scrambling thoughts came to a screeching halt when the bleach-blond man turned around, revealing a wide, goofy smile, a goatee, and a tan that would’ve made a beach bum proud. 

Buffy drew in a breath and forced herself to hold it a few seconds before letting it out. Her gymnastically-inclined heart fell off the balance beam and sank into the soft padding beneath it, deflated, as she got her breathing back under control. _‘Not Spike. Of course it’s not Spike. Why are you even thinking about Spike? Geez, Summers, get it together! This is supposed to be about_ not _thinking about the bleached menace!’_

With another deep breath that sounded a lot like a sigh, the Slayer decided food might help salvage this night. She picked up the menu the waitress had brought and began to peruse the offerings. Now this looked promising. Mozzarella Cheese Sticks, Cheese Fries, Bacon & Cheddar Burger, Bleu Cheese & Grilled Onion Burger, Mom’s Mac & Cheese, Onion rings, Oreo Sliders!

Hmmm, this absolutely had possibilities. Decisions, decisions…

“Decide what you want?” Percy asked after a few minutes, making Buffy look up in surprise.

“Are you talking to me?” she wondered, confused.

“Yeah... halftime,” he explained, waving a hand at one of the TVs.

Buffy looked up at the screen to find a bunch of people talking about the stuff they just watched… which they had talked about the whole time they were watching it. Oh! And now they’re watching it again… only with lots of squiggly lines and super-slow-mo.

Ooo-kay then – apparently it was her turn with her date now. “I was thinking either the Cheeseburger Trifecta or the Bacon & Cheddar Burger with either cheese fries or mac & cheese and…”

“You aren’t serious,” Percy cut her off, his face awash with shock. “Coach says all that fat is bad for you. Clogs your arteries and stuff, cuts off blood circulation, ya know?”

Buffy raised her brows.

“And commercially produced cheese? That’s the worst! Dairy? It has all these proteins, beta-casein A1, in it that totally mess you up. Plus, the hormones and antibiotics they give the cows! You should never eat cheese!” he advised. “And the gluten in the bun! Coach says that’s, like, the worst!”

“I thought cheese was the worst…” Buffy interjected.

“They’re both the worst!” the brunette declared.

“Pretty sure only one thing can be ‘ _the_ worst’,” Buffy pointed out, but he ignored her.

“If you’re gonna eat bread, it needs to be from whole-grain, organic, non-GMO bulgur wheat. We aren’t gonna be seventeen forever, ya know! You have to think of your future,” the jock offered sagely. “Coach says, take care of your body, and it’ll take care of you.”

Buffy closed her menu and gave him a saccharine smile. “What are you getting?” she wondered.

“Oh! The pan-seared Redfish with broccoli… I might splurge and get an order of Buffalo cauliflower,” he revealed.

“Broccoli… and… cauliflower,” Buffy stuttered incredulously.

“And Redfish,” Percy agreed, nodding. “Coach says fish is brain food.”

Buffy’s smile never wavered. “Maybe you should get a double helping.”

Percy didn’t seem to hear her. “Coach says…” he continued, but Buffy stopped listening.

_‘What kinda sports-izoid, freaky-health-conscious hell dimension have I fallen into!? God, Spike showing up to kill me would be a blessing!’_

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy washed and dried her hands, then checked her teeth in the mirror of the ladies’ room to see if any lettuce from that horrible salad she’d eaten was stuck in them. Salads were okay, she supposed, if they had cheese and bacon and plenty of dressing full of fatty-goodness. Plain salads with things like tomatoes and cucumber, with dressing on the side? That was way down on the ‘okay-ness’ meter.

She sighed as she fiddled with her hair. She knew she was stalling, not wanting to back out into the sea of blue and yellow. Excuse me, _gold_. UCLA had apparently started losing, and she’d been getting more and more dirty looks from fellow patrons. Well, not _her_ exactly, but her red and white outfit.

Her stomach rumbled and she frowned down at it. Rabbit food was probably fine for rabbits, not so much for Slayers. “Why did I order that? Why did I let Percy bully me into not getting a damn cheeseburger?” Buffy asked her reflection.

“If Spike had suggested I get a salad,” she began warningly, then rolled her eyes and sighed. She’d been doing pretty good with the not-thinking-of-Spike plan. You know… mostly… except when her eardrums were being skewered by Percy’s ‘music’ – at least Spike didn’t do that – yay for vampire hearing, she supposed. Or when she was looking at the menu and thought how much Spike would like that Spicy Jalapeño burger. And when Percy basically turned his back on her and ignored her – Spike would never turn his back on her. _‘Mostly cos he’d be afraid I’d put a stake through it, but still._ ’ And the third or tenth time Percy said, ‘Coach says,’ she had a vivid image of Spike smirking just before sinking his fangs into Percy’s neck – which was wrong! So, so wrong! But it made her smile, all the same. And she was fairly certain Spike would’ve called her outfit ‘fetching’ or said something piggy… or both. And she knew Spike would never have just forgotten to tell her about the color-scheme. He may have _purposely_ told her the wrong colors to wear, but he wouldn’t have just ignorantly forgotten to mention it.

“If Spike had suggested I get a salad,” she said again, giving up on her no-thinking-about-Spike plan, at least for the moment. “I would’ve told him to do something anatomically unlikely and painful, to mind his own stupid business, and to get me the damn burger… extra cheese. So, why didn’t I tell Percy that?”

Buffy looked at her reflection, meeting her own eyes, demanding it tell her the answer.

“Because Spike’s a vampire and Percy’s a human,” her reflection suggested.

Buffy considered that. She’d been brought up to be respectful of other people, to not step on toes, not make waves, and several other idioms she couldn’t recall at the moment. Percy was a human, so he got Buffy manners. Spike was a vampire, so he got Slayer manners. She shrugged, that was possible, but she sagged a little knowing that wasn’t the real answer because the question itself was flawed.

“Spike would never suggest I get a salad,” her reflection told herself. “He’d buy you all the cheeseburgers and cheese fries, and fried cheese sticks you wanted. He’d buy you a ginormous cheese _volcano_! With your own money, of course, but he’d order it without complaint and suggest more. Even if he knew or cared about clogging arteries, he knows one undeniable truth that Percy never will: I may very well be seventeen forever.”

_‘I almost didn’t make it past sixteen.’_

Somehow that made it harder to care about football or clogging arteries, and it left no time for guys who turned their back on her and thought Amelia Earhart had been found in third period Bio. Although, it was the Hellmouth, so that couldn’t be completely discounted.

“Spike gets you,” her reflection told her. “Even better than Angel ever did.”

“Yeah,” Buffy replied sadly. Angel never wanted to talk about her dying. Of course, Angel didn’t like to talk about much of anything. Mostly, Buffy talked and Angel listened, making appropriate noises now and then. Spike talked to her. No, Spike talked _with_ her. He didn’t treat her like a kid, he certainly didn’t coddle her or pretend she was a regular girl whose biggest problem was what college to go to.

Spike acknowledged that her life had a short expiration date. Even after she’d died once, Angel didn’t want to talk about her death. Spike was more than happy to discuss the prospect for hours on end – particularly how he’d kill her. “As if,” she scoffed to herself, smirking. “But at least he was honest about it – didn’t dance around the subject like everybody else does.” That probably shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was… or maybe not ‘comforting’ but… refreshing? There was plenty of dancing with Spike, but it was all honest and aboveboard, and she controlled the steps just as often as he did.

“And Spike loves Drusilla,” she reminded her reflection, a small stab of guilt and pain twisting in her gut. Or maybe that was the salad. “So, let it go. Frenemies, remember? Stop thinking about him. If he comes back and you’re like this, he’s gonna kill you.

“On the plus side,” her reflection pointed out. “You won’t have to go away to college then.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy’s eyes searched out the table where Percy and the others were sitting as she exited the restroom. As expected, it didn’t seem he’d even missed her, though she’d been gone a while. She rolled her eyes and began digging in her purse for money – she’d pay for her pathetic salad and just go. She was pretty sure a bus ran by here somewhere… or she could just walk home. It was a ways, but she was used to walking.

With her attention on her purse, Buffy was brought up short when she bounced off a solid wall of flesh. She squeaked in surprise and looked up to find a large man with sandy-brown hair and all-American good looks in her path.

“Sorry!” she apologized and made to step around him.

“Uh, hi,” he said tentatively, as he slid over and blocked her path.

She stopped and arched a brow at him. She was sooo not in the mood for this right now.

“Sorry, I just…” he continued, holding up his hands in surrender. “I saw you and…”

“I didn’t get the color-scheme memo, okay? I didn’t dress like this on purpose,” she defended, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not my fault your stupid team’s losing.”

“No, it’s not that,” he began to explain.

“Of course, it looks like you were left out of the school-pride loop, too,” she pointed out, giving his attire a disdainful once-over. “So, don’t go blaming me for lack of UCLA karma.”

The man looked down at his army-green t-shirt and fatigue pants, then back at her. “I’m from Iowa.”

Her brows furrowed. Was that like being Amish or something? “They only allow drab green in Iowa?” she wondered.

“What? Oh! No… I just… my friends kinda dragged me out and I have to work later and…” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not important. I just… you’re probably wondering why I’m lurking outside the ladies’ room and blocking the aisle.”

“It had breezed through my mind,” Buffy admitted.

“Right. Well, like I said, I saw you come by and I just thought you were… Sorry, I’m not usually this forward but… well, you’re really pretty and I wondered if maybe I’d see you around campus sometime…?” he stammered out as a kind of hopeful question.

_‘Really pretty?’_ Buffy’s brows went up and she started taking in more details of the man. Very tall. Very broad. Nice arms. Handsome face. A little older than her, but not a lot… assuming he wasn’t a vampire, of course. Sorta cute in a big teddy-bear kinda way. “Campus?” she asked.

“Yeah, you know… UC Sunnydale?” he explained, gesturing in the general direction of the school.

“Oh. No… I’m a senior at Sunnydale High,” Buffy explained.

“Oh. Right.” The Iowan seemed to slump. “So, maybe next year?” he asked hopefully.

Buffy shrugged. “My mom wants to send me ‘back east’ for college, like we’re in some old western and nothing out here in the wild, wild west is good enough.”

“You know, UC Sunnydale’s a good school – really! I know it’s small, but that makes it even better,” he enthused. “Class sizes are manageable, so each student gets more one-on-one attention.”

“Just what I wanted,” Buffy muttered under her breath, louder she said, “You sound like a poster boy… although, do poster boys actually make any sound? Or do they just, you know, hang on a wall and be all two-dimensional and poster-y?”

The man opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. “Uh, I’m not sure?” he admitted. “But I can assure you I have not been compensated in any way for my completely biased endorsement.”

“Good to know,” the Slayer replied, giving him a small smile. “Maybe I’ll have you come give my mom a PowerPoint presentation.”

“Just say the word! I’m there!” the brunette offered enthusiastically. “Oh! I’m Riley, by the way, Riley Finn,” he said, sticking out his right hand.

Buffy took it. Warm, a little sweaty, big, strong… nice – not a vampire. Could that hand deliver a punch? Could that jaw take one? Were those still inappropriate qualities to consider when meeting someone new? “Buffy Summers.”

“Nice to meet you, Buffy Summers. I’m at Lowell House if you ever, you know… need that PowerPoint thing. I don’t actually know how to do one, but I could, you know, draw pictures or something. I got lots of gold stars for my Crayola masterpieces when I was five.”

Buffy laughed in genuine amusement. “Thanks. I’ll give it some thought,” she agreed, pulling her hand back. “I’ve… uh…” she waved said hand toward the door and Riley quickly stepped to the side with an apologetic, “Sorry.”

Buffy made to step past him, then paused. “What did you have for dinner?” she wondered, looking up at him.

Finn looked a little chagrined. “A plate of nachos and a beer,” he admitted. “I know it’s not the healthiest,” he added hurriedly, shrugging.

“Well, you only live once, right?” Buffy placated. “Do you know who Amelia Earhart is?” she asked next.

“Yeah, sure,” Finn replied, taken off-guard by that seemingly out-of-the-blue question.

Buffy arched an inquiring brow when he didn’t continue.

“Oh, uh, first female aviator to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. Disappeared somewhere in the Pacific attempting to circumnavigate the globe in the ‘30s. No trace was ever found,” he provided.

Buffy nodded and turned to keep walking.

“Did I pass?” he called after her.

“I’d give you a ‘B-’,” she replied, pausing to look back at him.

“How do I get an ‘A’?”

“The nachos needed extra cheese and you should’ve had dessert.”

A boyish grin spread over Riley’s face. “I’ll do better next time.”

“See that you do,” Buffy ordered gravely, before turning and continuing toward the door.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Hey, Perc,” one of his friends said, jabbing Percy in the ribs. “Your nightcap’s leaving.” He pointed at the door to the restaurant just as Buffy disappeared through it.

“Shit!” Percy swore, looking up at the TV. The game, for all intents and purposes, was over. UCLA was losing by too much to come back from in the time remaining. He made a quick decision, jumping up and dropping some cash on the table before rushing after Buffy.

“Hey!” he called as he ran after her through the parking lot. “Where you goin’?”

Buffy turned around, surprised, as he jogged up. “Home,” she lied. She’d actually been going to find a pizza place or a burger joint and get some food first, but eventually, home.

“I’m really sorry. I thought you’d be into football,” he apologized. “Let me make it up to you – you don’t wanna be walking after dark in this town. It’s kinda… unsafe. Plus, it’s a long walk! I’ll drive you.”

Buffy wavered a moment, then shrugged. It _was_ a long walk. And she was hungry. Home sooner meant she could order pizza sooner, and there was still some ice cream in the freezer. “Okay, thanks.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“So, I had a really good time tonight,” Percy said as he parked in the street, cutting the engine and the blaring music, leaving the car in a dark shadow beneath one of the huge trees in Buffy’s yard.

Buffy arched a brow. “That makes one of us,” she muttered, reaching for the door handle.

Percy stopped her with a warm hand gripping her bare thigh, about halfway between her knee and her hip. “Where you goin’?”

“Uh… into my house?” Buffy suggested, covering Percy’s hand with her own and stopping him from sliding it up beneath her short skirt. She restrained herself from breaking it… barely.

“Don’t you want a nightcap?” he asked suggestively.

“A nightcap?” Buffy mimicked, turning back to look at him.

“Yeah, baby… that’s how it works, ya know?” he continued. He pulled his trapped hand from beneath hers and began unfastening his belt. “End the night with a little taste of Percy.”

“That’s how _what_ works?” she asked. Buffy’s brows shot up as she watched him undo his belt and then slide his zipper down. What emerged from behind the zipper was, well… it didn’t whet her appetite or even make her blush. She’d definitely seen better, even if the glimpse of the better-ness had only been for a second.

“You know? I take you out for a good time, buy you dinner, and you… show a little gratitude,” he explained, stroking himself with one hand as he slipped the other behind her neck and began to pull her face down toward his lap.

Buffy pulled back, easily breaking his hold. “So, you buy girls crummy salads and they’re so grateful for the honor they go down on you?” she asked incredulously.

Percy looked confused. “Well, yeah,” he confirmed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, I paid for my own salad… so, no thanks,” Buffy declined, reaching for the door handle again.

“That’s not how it works!” Percy insisted, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck again. “I take you out. You show your gratitude,” he repeated as he tried to pull her head back down toward his waiting cock.

Buffy’s elbow connected with Percy’s solar plexus, driving all the air from his lungs in a painful gasp. He slumped forward over the steering wheel, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck, bitch,” he panted out, grimacing.

Her hand blurred forward and closed around his quickly-slackening cock. “Do you want me to rip this off and feed it to you?” she growled, leaning in near his ear.

Percy froze, the rocking motion he’d been doing to ease the pain stopping mid-rock.

“DO YOU?” she demanded, squeezing a little harder.

“No!” he gasped, reaching down to try and prise her fingers from around his jewels with no success.

“No? Did you say ‘ _no’_?” Buffy wondered.

“Yes! I mean no! I mean… what was the question?”

“Lesson the first,” Buffy intoned gravely. “No means no,” she snarled, gripping his junk a tiny bit harder before letting it go. “Even Spike knows that,” she grumbled angrily as she flung the door open and scrambled out.

“Your dog?” Percy questioned, fumbling with his privates, trying to make sure everything was still where he’d left it.

Buffy snorted, slamming the door closed. “Yeah, him too.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“How was your date?” Joyce asked as Buffy dropped her purse by the door.

“I’ve had root canals that were more fun,” the Slayer replied with a dejected sigh. Spike padded up and leaned his heavy body against her legs, his tail wagging languidly as he bummed an ear-scratch.

“You’ve never had a root canal,” Joyce pointed out as she came down the stairs.

“Point still stands,” the Slayer grumbled, digging her fingers into Spike’s thick coat and massaging his neck.

“Well, sorry it sucked,” her mom commiserated. “Does it warrant ice cream?”

“So much,” Buffy agreed. “And pizza… with extra cheese and every meat-product they can pile on it.”

“Wow, that bad, huh?” Joyce chuckled, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll call it in – emergency portions!” She paused in the doorway and looked back at her daughter. “There’s something in the mail for you, but… you might want to look at it tomorrow.”

“That bad, huh?” she asked. “What happened, is Macy’s going out of business?” Buffy wondered as she picked up the stack of mail from the table.

Joyce snorted a laugh. “Not quite that bad… I don’t think.”

Buffy shrugged. “Well, then, might as well add it to this crap-tasitic day,” she decided as she uncovered the postcard. Puerto Vallarta. It was a picture of a church just at dusk with the ocean, sky, and mountains in the background the color of purple twilight. City lights twinkled behind the tall tower, which was lit with a soft glow and topped with looked like a pure gold crown. The words, ‘Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,’ were printed near the bottom of the card.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50870740136/in/dateposted-public/)

‘ _Spike sent me a postcard of a church?’_ It was a beautiful church, to be sure, and a beautiful picture, but still… a vampire sending a postcard of a church. “He’s so strange,” she muttered as she turned it over. Buffy wasn’t sure what to make of the other side. First, it was splattered with drops of ink, as if a fountain pen had exploded. Did Spike still use fountain pens? In a couple of places, it was torn where the pen had dug into the thick cardboard. It was addressed to ‘ _Slayer’_ , rather than ‘Buffy’.

_“’Fuck you and your fucking cheese! Hope you sodding choke on it and die!’”_ Buffy read aloud, her voice confused, the tone rising on the end making it a question. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she wondered, looking up at her mom.

Joyce shrugged. “Maybe he got attacked by cheese? Are there cheese monsters?”

Buffy’s brows furrowed more as she turned the card over to the front again, looking for some clue. “None that I’ve found... yet,” she admitted, shaking her head. Finding nothing on the front that gave her any ideas, she turned it over and looked at the back again carefully. His writing was normally elegant and smooth with a distinctive left-hand slant, but this was clearly angry, rough… almost like he was attacking the card with it. Probably how he broke the stupid pen. It was a wonder it had even gotten to her with part of her address obliterated by the spilled ink. At the bottom she looked for his normal signature of, ‘HYYF –S’. Her heart twisted inexplicably when instead she found, ‘ _Hate you!’,_ which was scrawled, almost scratched, into the cardboard.

Buffy swallowed back the hurt. Hundreds of miles away and she’d somehow pissed Spike off. Or maybe he just remembered that they were mortal enemies, not friends, after all. Well, fine, be that way. Apparently, Spike was just as big an ass as Percy, so why should she be upset that he hated her and hoped she’d die? She absolutely didn’t care! Not one little bit. She didn’t need him and his dumb postcards anyway. She’d… well, she’d keep with her plan, she’d find someone to date. Someone who actually had half a brain and… and who liked cheese! So there!

“Hate you, too,” she muttered, tossing the card back onto the table. “Jerk.”

* * *

**Story Board**

**If you have downloaded this Chapter and can't see the photo, you can see[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kvhmoW).**

**[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50870839922/in/dateposted-public/) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Riley showing up. I know it's 'early', but my theory is that he and some of the others would be there getting things set up for their operation to begin sometime in the summer or fall of this year (1999). They were in full swing by October. They would need to set up cover stories, enroll in college, get training for their mission, etc. Don't be too concerned by him... yet. 
> 
> Glory Days is a real restaurant / sports bar, and the things Buffy was reading on their menu really are on the menu. They began operating in 1996, so it is plausible for there to be one in Sunnydale at this time.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading! I know you want Spike back here, want him to explain what the hell that postcard meant, want him to do all sorts of things... hang in there! I warned you this would be SLOW! I wasn't exaggerating. Don't hate me!


	9. Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, like tequila for my muse!
> 
> As always, my everlasting gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and for all their efforts to keep me from following the pixies into the abyss. 
> 
> Most of the Spanish in this chapter is from the internet with a little help from my vague recollection of high school Spanish. Some mistakes by Spike are intentional; some probably aren’t. I kept it pretty basic and tried to make the meanings clear, either by Spike’s reply or the actions of the characters.

**_[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50791321588/in/dateposted-public/) _ **

* * *

**_Mexico._ **

Dru wasn’t in their room when Spike got there. He dropped his duster on the table, stripped his tattered, bloodied clothes, and climbed into the shower, turning the water up to nearly boiling. He propped both hands against the wall below the showerhead and bowed his head beneath the spray. The vampire let the nearly-scalding-but-not-nearly-scalding-enough water sluice down his body, stinging the gouges and bites his sire had given him, washing away the grime and blood and tears.

But it couldn’t wash away the green eyes that looked back at him from behind his closed lids. Accusing. Condemning. Dead. He growled and opened his eyes, staring at the white tile, watching the water at his feet go from red and rust to clear. Tears didn’t color the water. Maybe they should.

A conversation from months ago came back to him as he stood there beneath the deluge of steaming liquid. Was just after he’d given the sodding puppy to the Slayer’s mum… after she’d talked him into driving her to her daughter, who had just sent her first love to hell…

_“Me and Dru, we’re eternal… literally,” Spike had told her as he drove them to Crawford Street from Revello after delivering the puppy. “Just needs a bit more monster in ‘er man, she does.” He sniffed. “Not a problem.”_

_From the backseat Joyce had given him a sad smile in the mirror. “That sounds like a very lonely way to spend eternity, trying to be what you aren’t.”_

Spike let out a wailing shriek of frustration and punched the wall, shattering tiles, sending the sharp splinters of porcelain raining down around his feet, slicing into the tender skin. He hit it again and again as he growled and cursed and screamed, turning the water red again. As any monster should.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike waited as long as his patience would allow, but Dru hadn’t come back – off with the fairies… Spike hoped. Spike didn’t really want to know what or who she was off with. What he wanted was to stop thinking, to stop feeling, to stop seeing the green eyes every time he closed his eyes. What he wanted was to get completely and utterly pissed. Maybe then _he_ could find some sodding fairies to be off with.

He strode into the sparsely populated tavern with that mission in mind, slapped a pile of stolen cash down on the bar and ordered, “Patrón.”

The bartender – an older man with short, grey hair, rich, brown skin, and dark, penetrating eyes – grabbed a glass, and poured Spike a shot. There were bowls of lime and plenty of saltshakers lined up along the top of the bar, but the vampire ignored them. He downed the shot in a flash of vampire speed, then snatched the bottle from the barkeep’s hand before the man could even move.

“Save us all some time, eh?” Spike suggested, lifting the bottle to his lips and swallowing heartily.

The man furrowed his brows, but then shrugged and slid the pile of money off the bar, stuffing it into his pocket before turning to go tend to the few other patrons.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

The world around him swam, undulating dreamily, as if it were underwater. Or maybe _he_ was underwater. Spike blinked. He didn’t feel wet. He definitely felt thirsty though. He picked up the bottle from the bar in front of him, threw his head back, and turned it upside down over his mouth. Only a few drops came out.

“OI!” he bellowed, swaying in his seat as he threw the bottle across the room, shattering it somewhere beyond his ability to see. “SERVICE!”

“No piensas que has tenido suficiente?” the small man asked from behind the bar.

“No, I bloody well don’t think I’ve had enough. Still standing, aren’t I?” he pointed out, looking down. Spike’s brows furrowed. He moved his feet along the brass railing beneath them. His body didn’t move. He moved them the other way. The rest of him remained in place. He looked back up at the barkeeper. “I-I think my feet ‘ave come off,” he admitted. “T-they don’ move me about… think they’re s-supposed t’ do that,” he slurred.

“Creo que ya has tenido suficiente,” the man repeated, turning away from Spike.

“OI! Give me another sodding bottle or I’ll rip your bleedin’ head off!” the vampire threatened. “Can do it, too. Vampire, yeah? Monster,” he breathed, widening his blue eyes dramatically and curling his fingers to mimic claws. Spike suddenly began to sob, dropping his forehead down onto the worn bar top with a ‘thunk’.

“Not monster enough,” he cried into the scarred wood, shaking his head back and forth. “Try t’ be, don’t I? Try to do everything she wants. Pluck all the ripest plums for my princess, but gotta keep ‘er safe, don’t I? Can’t just pick every plum from the tree – the bleedin’ farmer’d notice! Take ‘er to shows, dancing, took her to the sodding Gulf and the Pacific – just what she said she wanted! Not enough! Never bloody enough,” he moaned.

“Blergh…” Spike grunted, holding his stomach. “Gonna be sick. Need another bottle.”

“Creo que—” the man began again.

“Yeah, well, yo creo que… I haven’t had e-bloody-nough,” Spike shot back, standing up on the railing where his disconnected feet rested, leaning over the bar, and snagging another bottle of Patrón. “So, bugger off! … ¡Vete la mierda!”

Spike’s head spun when he dropped back down into his seat. He had to close his eyes a moment and hold onto the bar to keep from falling over. When he opened his eyes, he saw the bottle on the counter in front of him. He nodded and looked up at the bartender, who was looking distinctly unhappy, his dark eyes a mix of fear and anger. 

“Muchas gracias, Panchito,” Spike thanked the man, as if the barkeep had given him the bottle. Spike lifted the tequila up to take a swig, but nothing came out. He pulled it back and looked at it, rocking back and forth unsteadily, trying to focus on the top. “Can’t get good help these days,” he muttered, reaching one hand out to pull the cork from the bottle.

“Bloke could die of thirst ‘round ‘ere,” he slurred, trying to close his fingers on the round cork. “Bloody hell… what they put these on with, sodding super glue?” he complained, his hand closing around the neck of the bottle rather than the stopper.

The barkeeper, whose name most certainly was _not_ ‘Panchito’, rolled his eyes and blew out an impatient breath before reaching over and plucking the cork from the bottle, holding it up for Spike to see.

“Bloody hell… strong for a little flackito, aren’t ya?” Spike observed, his eyes crossing as he tried to focus on the cork. “Remind me t’ leave ya a good tip, eh? Oh! I got one for ya – don’t fall in love with barmy women! And they’re all bloody barmy!” he declared, laughing darkly before lifting the bottle to his lips and swallowing greedily.

“Vampiro estúpido,” the man muttered, before going to clean up the shattered glass from the end of the bar. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d done that since the vampire had come in, nearly twenty-four hours ago. The only respite had been when Spike passed out sometime around dawn, giving the man a chance to go upstairs to his apartment, barricade his door, and get some sleep.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

By the third night, the bartender had partly dragged, and partly lured the drunken vampire to the furthest end of the bar, away from his other, less depressed and less violent customers. He had no idea how to actually get rid of him, though. So far, no one had been attacked, but the man had seen enough to know that you didn’t piss off vampires, especially drunken ones. And Spike was most assuredly drunk, and had been for the better part of the last seventy-two hours.

“Wha’s tha’? ¿Qué eso?” Spike asked the man, squinting and trying to make out the rack of items on the wall that Not-Panchito was straightening and restocking. The vampire reached out with one wobbly hand and tried to grab what looked like small bottles of Patrón from the display. His fingers slipped over a smooth, glossy surface, unable to get hold of the mini-tequila bottles lined up in front of him.

“Recuerdos para los turistas,” the bartender explained.

“Eh?” Spike asked, tilting his head as if that would make him understand better.

“Souvenirs,” the small man tried in his thick accent. When Spike still looked confused, his chipped, black nails sliding over the slick bottles, unable to pick one up, the bartender rolled his eyes and pulled one of the cards out of the holder and waved it in front of Spike. “Tarjetas postales para los gringos.”

Spike blinked and jerked his head back from the waving bottle. No, not a bottle. His brows furrowed and he grabbed it from the man’s hand. “Postcards,” he translated finally. “For gringos.” He nodded drunkenly to himself. “I’m a bloody gringo,” he asserted proudly, turning back in his seat and gently setting the postcard down on the bar in front of him, careful not to shatter it and spill the tequila.

He looked at it a few moments, swaying slightly in his seat, trying to remember what it was he did with postcards. He tried to pick it up and drink it again before remembering it wasn’t actually a bottle, but a _picture_ of a bottle. “’ _Keep calm and drink Patrón_ ,’” he read from the card once his eyes focused again. “Good advice, that,” he agreed, taking another swig from the _actual_ bottle next to him.

After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Spike began digging in his pockets for his pen. The first thing he pulled out was the cell phone. He’d stuck it in his pocket earlier after, once again, considering calling Buffy, but not doing it. He hadn’t been able to decide if he wanted to scream at her and curse her for the bloody cheese-loving bint she was, or cry on her shoulder – so he did neither.

Now, with a few more pints of fermented agave in his system, he opened it up and turned it back on. His head tilted in interest as the phone chimed cheerily. He watched the screen light up, displaying its animated logo, then go dark again, waiting for him to dial.

The bartender watched him, shaking his head. “Eso nunca es una buena idea,” he advised, looking pointedly at the phone. “Nunca… eso _no good_.”

Spike looked up at him. Frowned. Nodded. Turned the phone off. Put it back in his pocket. Went back to looking for his pen. What did he need his pen for, again?

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

In the wee hours of the fourth night, Spike started seeing pixies. They flitted around him in clouds of sparkling fairy dust, their delicate wings nothing more than blurs. He blinked. Then blinked again. They didn’t go away. He reached out to catch them, but they were too fast, shooting away like comets.

He stumbled to his feet to follow them. As he stood up, the world stopped spinning. Spike didn’t. For long moments he was the only thing in the universe still rotating, unbound by gravity or reality, and on the verge of spiraling out of control. He hung onto the bar top, rocking in place until the world jerked forward, caught up with him, and started turning again.

“Right…” he muttered, turning slowly to see where the fair-folk had got off to. His head wobbled around on his shoulders as if his neck were a frayed rubber band, and he had to put a hand to his forehead to keep it from bouncing on the floor and rolling away.

He caught sight of them going into the storeroom, and he took step to follow.

“¿Ya te vas?” the exhausted bartender asked hopefully.

Spike turned back to look at the man, nodding blearily. “Yeah, mate… gotta go,” he replied, catching sight of a bottle on the bar where he’d been sitting. He picked it up, studying it closely for a few moments before he upended it over his mouth, letting the last drops of tequila dribble down his throat. He groaned. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Gracias a Dios,” the barkeeper swore thankfully, folding his hands as if in prayer and looking up at the heavens.

“Yeah, yeah, Panchito, no need t’ call in the big guy,” Spike muttered, pulling out another handful of bills and dropping them on the counter. He blinked at the pile owlishly, then at the exhausted man. “That enough? ¿Suficiente dinero?”

“Si, si. Very good,” the little man agreed, nodding eagerly and turning Spike toward the back door, where he’d been headed originally.

“Tha’s good… i’s all I got,” the vampire slurred as he began staggering away under his own power, following the glittering pixies. He snagged another bottle of tequila from a carton as he walked through the back room, not bothering to hide it.

Not-Panchito let out a relieved sigh as soon as Spike was out the door, locking it behind the drunk vampire with a ‘clack’ of the heavy bolt. “Gracias a Dios,” he breathed again, crossing himself, before heading back into the barroom.

He picked up all the money Spike had left – not actually enough to even begin to cover what he’d consumed, but the barkeeper was just happy to have him finally gone with no blood spilled. He straightened each note as he went, then folded it all and put it in his pocket. He furrowed his brows as he looked at the postcard that was left beneath the money, considered a moment, shrugged, and put it in the pile with his mail to go out later that day.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

“So, no date-y goodness?” Willow asked Buffy between classes as they got books from their lockers.

“Not even a little bit,” the Slayer sighed. “Then, when I got home, Spike sent me—” She stopped abruptly. Buffy hadn’t told anyone about the postcards from Spike; only her mom knew about them. She was sure that there would be judgement and disapproving looks, possibly even long, boring lectures with a plethora of polysyllabic words from Giles. And there was no reason for it! They were postcards, for heaven’s sake! It’s not like she was _dating_ another vampire! It was totally no big and everyone would want to make with the bigness.

“Spike sent you…?” Willow asked, looking at Buffy curiously.

“Huh? Oh, yeah… uh, Spike sent me… tumbling down the stairs when the pizza got there,” Buffy covered, rubbing her arm as if it were bruised. “Big dummy,” she complained.

“Well, Spike can get overly enthusiastic when it comes to cheesy-goodness,” Willow agreed, closing her locker.

“Clearly,” Buffy agreed, rolling her eyes. _‘Fuck you and your fucking cheese!’_ What the hell did that even mean, anyway? _‘I hope you choke on it and die.’_ Well, that, at least, was fairly easy to interpret.

“Oh! Look!” Willow bubbled, pulling a flyer down off the bulletin board and showing it to Buffy. “Speed dating at the Bronze tomorrow night!”

The Slayer paused and looked at the notice, her brows furrowing. “I don’t know…” she demurred, her nose wrinkling. “I have to do that focus-y rock thing with Giles tomorrow—”

“That only takes a few minutes! You can still go. It’ll be perfect!” Willow assured her. “You can talk to them for like, five minutes, and if you don’t like them, you won’t be stuck eating salads and hiding in the bathroom! And, if you _do_ like them, then you can have a real date later.”

Buffy still looked unconvinced.

“C’mon, Buffy, it’ll be great! It’ll give you a chance to get out of this whole vampire-missage phase,” Willow cajoled.

“Vampire missage!? There’s no missage! Why would I miss—” Buffy began to object.

“It’s understandable!” Willow interjected. “Having Angel around but not being able to… you know, do anything about it.” The redhead sighed, her eyes catching sight of another head of red hair passing through the crowd, pointedly not looking at her. “At least you can talk to your ex…” she said depressingly.

“Angel… right,” Buffy sighed, letting out a breath of relief as she followed Willow’s gaze. “No luck with the groveling?”

Willow shook her head and they started walking again. “He won’t even let me try… he said to leave him alone.”

“Just give him time, Wills. He’ll come around… he cares about you too much to not forgive you,” Buffy assured her friend.

“I might need another night of ice cream and Spike cuddles until that happens,” the witch contended.

Buffy smiled. “Anytime. Spike’s always up for kisses and cuddles.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**The Bronze. Speed-dating.**

“One of the things I look for in a woman is a low sexual partner count,” the clean-cut brunette in the crisp, navy blue business-suit said just as Buffy sat down across from him.

Buffy’s brows rose. “Okay, then, I guess that lets me out,” she replied, smiling sweetly.

“Why, how many guys have you done?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Oh, just guys? Well, if you’re only counting guys…” She tapped a finger on her lips, eyes to the ceiling, apparently trying to calculate this immense number.

The fellow’s eyes grew wider. “You’ve done girls, too?”

Buffy shrugged. “I’m and equal-opportunity doer. Let’s see… now, do you count groups, too, or just, you know, one on one?”

The guy choked on his water.

**-X-**

The second boy, Jacob, looked more promising, in just regular jeans and a white t-shirt with a leather coat over top. The coat didn’t quite hang right on him, though, it was too stiff, not broken in – it looked uncomfortable. Not like a certain leather coat she remembered, soft and supple, one that flowed sexily as the blond wearing it walked… no, not ‘walked’. Spike never just _walked_ , he sauntered or strutted. Sometimes he strode, occasionally he ran, the billowing duster making even his retreats seem evocative.

Buffy clenched her jaw as she sat down, shaking the image of that flowing duster and the blond wearing it from her mind. _‘Bad Buffy! This is ‘forget Spike’ night, remember? He hates you! He wants you dead! He’s back to public enemy number one! Forget him!’_

“My cat died last night,” Jacob related glumly, running a hand back through his dirty-blond hair and making it stick up at odd angles.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Buffy replied, doing her best to focus on his face and not his so-wrong leather coat. “Was it very old?”

“Yeah, like, twelve,” he related. “My parents got her as a kitten when I was two.”

Buffy furrowed her brow. “How old are you now?”

“Seventeen.”

She gave him a saccharine smile. “Let me guess, math is your life.”

**-X-**

“Whew! You're hotter than a data center with an old school cooling system!”

“O-kay, then. I’ll just, uh, be in the restroom dousing myself with water so nothing catches on fire.”

**-X-**

Buffy’s hopes swelled as she moved to the next date, who stood up to shake her hand when she approached. His chocolatey brown eyes were bright and eager as they met hers. He was tall and broad, with a mop of brunette hair that was fashionably disheveled, and dimples! Oh God, the dimples when he smiled where melty, as was his smile, which made his eyes sparkle even more.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greeted Buffy, his voice a deep, rich baritone that flowed like warm honey.

Buffy couldn’t help but smile, but figured that was his standard greeting. “It’s Buffy, actually,” she corrected as he released her hand and they sat back down.

“A gorgeous name to go with a gorgeous girl,” he replied, leaning forward and giving her his full, undivided attention. “Denny,” he introduced himself with a flash of white teeth.

Buffy could get used to all these compliments, even if they were just lines. His smile was infectious, and Buffy found herself returning it easily. “Nice to meet you, Denny. Is that short for Dennis?” she wondered.

“Nope, just Denny. Is Buffy short for ‘Beautiful’?”

Buffy flushed, but didn’t miss a beat with her reply. “Nope, just Buffy,” she parroted back, her smile still matching his, though his included those killer dimples, which was so not fair. “I haven’t seen you around before,” Buffy continued.

“We just moved here a month or so ago from Seattle. I go to Central,” he explained. “You?”

“About two years ago from L.A.” Buffy provided. “I go to Sunnydale High.”

“Oh, that explains it – you’re from L.A. A starlet or a model?” Denny asked with a sly grin, flaunting his dimples again.

Buffy rolled her eyes, but smiled. “A cheerleader,” she admitted.

“That’s perfect,” the brunette declared.

“Don’t tell me – you play football,” Buffy interrupted, her hope for this one fading as memories of Percy flooded her mind.

Denny picked up on it. “Not anymore,” he asserted, giving her a lopsided smile. “I just quit.” 

Buffy laughed. “You’d give up football for me?”

“I’d give up breathing for you,” he declared, that rich voice dripping with sincerity, his warm eyes focused solely on her, as if no one else existed in the whole world. Was it possible they weren’t just lines?

“You don’t even know me,” Buffy reminded him.

“I know that you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, that you have a smile that lights up the whole room, that you have eyes that glitter like emeralds, and hair that shines like spun gold. I know that you have great fashion sense and look amazing in red. And, most importantly, that you’re no shrinking violet, and you don’t take any crap from anyone.”

Buffy’s confidence swelled and lip twisted into a smirky smile. “That’s not a lot of info to pledge your life on.”

“Oh! I wasn’t pledging my life. I’d give up breathing for, ya know, thirty seconds or so… a minute max,” he joked.

Buffy laughed, finding herself utterly charmed. “Well, that’s fair, then.”

“I’d definitely need more to make a bigger fool of myself and, you know, pass out like a three-year-old in the middle of a temper tantrum. So, who is Buffy? Ten words or less,” he challenged, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

Buffy could answer that in one: ‘Slayer’, but that would be meaningless to Denny. Plus, she’d gotten rid of her ‘I’m a Slayer. Ask me how!’ buttons. Who was she? The one girl in all the world… The Chosen One. None of that helped. Her smile turned slightly sad. “I’m the girl that monsters have nightmares about.”

He arched a brow, his eyes narrowing in thought. “And nice guys dream about seeing again,” he added cheekily, wagging his brows at her and giving her another of his drop-dead smiles.

Buffy grinned as the buzzer went off and she stood up. “That’s more than ten words.”

“So it is… so it is,” Denny agreed, watching her move to the next table.

Buffy chanced a look back and found Denny still watching her, even as his next date came up to him. Another warm flush colored her neck and face when their eyes met and held for a long moment. She couldn’t help but smile as she pulled her attention away from the (ex?) football player, though she could hear him saying hello to the next girl, and he didn’t call her ‘beautiful’.

**-X-**

“Hi, I’m Calvin,” the next guy said in way of introduction, reaching his right hand across the table to shake. He had mousey brown hair, wore glasses and looked like he was trying to grow a beard but failing miserably. He also had braces on both of his hands and wrists.

“Buffy,” she supplied, reaching over and shaking his hand.

“You’re really pretty,” he offered next, ducking his head shyly. “I like that dress.”

“Thanks. You look nice, too. Rocking the whole sweater-vest thing,” Buffy replied, trying to sound sincere.

Calvin fiddled with the collar of the knitted blue vest that he wore over a black t-shirt. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure what to wear… you know, dress up or dress down?”

“So you dressed…?” Buffy hesitated, raising her brows.

“Up,” he supplied.

“Up!” she mimicked quickly, as if that was her guess. “Well, yeah, it’s, you know, unique, Calvin. Very… umm… wintery.”

“You can call me Cal if you want.”

“Okay… Cal.” There was silence for a few moments before Buffy came up with, “What happened to your wrists?”

Cal held up both hands, showing her the black braces that wrapped his arms from mid-palm almost to his elbows. “I have nerve damage. Too much Mortal Kombat.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Like there could be too much Mortal Kombat!”

“Right—can never have too much of that… it’s literally my life,” Buffy agreed.

“You are the perfect girl,” Calvin declared dreamily. “My old girlfriend never got it! She broke up with me last month. She said it was because the sex was really bad, you know, cos I can’t use my hands.” He raised said appendages again in demonstration. “And I can’t climax cos of the meds, or, you know, even get an erection, but I know it was really about my dedication to winning the continued freedom of Earthrealm.”

Buffy covered her mouth with one hand trying to hold back her shocked laughter, her eyes growing wider and wider as he spoke. Tears welled in her eyes as the strain of not laughing got to be too much.

“I know,” Cal lamented sadly, shaking his head. “If I weren’t such a badass warrior, it’d make me cry too.”

Buffy nodded, her jaw clenched tight, her throat aching with the laughter that boiled up inside her. Lucky for her, the buzzer sounded and she shot up out of her chair and was gone before it even finished.

**-X-**

“Hi, I’m Daniel,” the next one introduced himself in an almost lyrical baritone, standing up and extending his hand to shake.

“Buffy,” she replied with a smile, accepting the proffered hand. He had a strong handshake, his hand didn’t swamp hers, and he didn’t try to crush her – not that he could, but he didn’t know that. He had amazingly blue eyes and a thick head of chestnut-brown hair – trimmed neatly at the back and sides – that was slicked back on top – hiding curls? His chin and jaw were both strong, his high, prominent cheekbones making them look especially attractive.

“So,” she began sitting down opposite him. “What do you do for fun? Video games? Comic books? Knitting?”

Daniel laughed easily, the humor sparkling in his blue eyes. “Would it kill my chances if I said, ‘none of the above’?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Buffy told him sadly. “I’m pretty into knitting. It’s a real deal breaker.”

“Well, I’m very trainable,” he suggested, smirking. “What about you, Buffy? Other than the knitting, I mean? Axe throwing, maybe? Or grave robbing?”

“I can totally throw an axe!” Buffy declared unabashedly. “It was my talent in the Miss Sunnydale Pageant!”

“Which you won by throwing axes at all the other contestants?” he ribbed her, laughing.

“Well, that and my mad knitting skills,” Buffy quipped, laughing in return.

Daniel was nice. He was funny. Not stuffy. Not piggy. She tried to imagine him with his hair bleached blond. Too bad his eyes weren’t just a little less ‘aqua’ and a little more ‘azure’, and his teeth were a little too straight, too perfect, and he never once ran his tongue over them, and his smirk wasn’t quite, well, smirky enough, and was his jaw actually strong enough to take a punch?

Buffy shook herself, barely keeping a groan from escaping her lips. ‘ _Again, really!!?’_ She was here to forget about a certain peroxided vampire, not compare prospective dates to him! _Argh_!

The buzzer sounded and they both stood up, Daniel extending his hand again, still smiling. Buffy took it, returning the smile. No way he could crush her hand, even if he tried. Should that be a bad thing?

**-X-**

“You’re a cute one,” the next guy, Joe, said first thing after introducing himself, peering at her over the top of his sunglasses. He had blue hair that stood up in stiff spikes all over his head, several earrings in each ear, and a skin-tight, long-sleeved black mesh shirt that showed off his thick muscles rather than covering them up. He ran his eyes over her face then down Buffy’s body slowly before sitting back and pushing his sunglasses back up. “I’d give you a… six and a half.”

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “Out of five?” she asked. “Like AAA?”

He snorted. “Outta ten, Bunny,” he clarified.

“Buffy,” she corrected.

He just kept talking, “I mean, maybe if you got a little something done up top – well, a _lot_ of something from where you’re starting,” he suggested, waving at Buffy’s chest, “and fixed your nose… you could maybe get to an eight… but your legs are too short, and there’s just not a lot you can do about that.”

Buffy looked down at her chest then put a hand to her nose as he spoke, frowning. “My legs go all the way to the ground,” she pointed out, pouting.

He chuckled. “Yeah, but do they reach all the way up to heaven?” he asked lewdly, wagging his brows at her suggestively. “I’d have to stand you on a stack of phone books to bend you over and fu— _oomph_!” Joe’s face nearly smacked into the table between them as he doubled over, groaning and clutching at his lap.

“I guess they reach far enough,” Buffy observed sweetly. She shrugged and stood up. “By the way, _Jack_ , I’d give you a one… only cos I like the color of your hair. I suggest you get something done up top, too… lobotomies are all the rage these days. Oh! Wait! You already had one, didn’t you?”

**-X-**

“So, my dad wants me to go to Harvard, but I don’t know,” the dark-haired, olive-skinned guy in the ‘Ghost Busters’ t-shirt related. Buffy had already forgotten his name. “Everybody knows that MIT is better than Harvard in engineering. MIT does have a very good business school but not as dominant as Harvard's. And everybody knows that Harvard is better in the arts and humanities and the professions such as law, medicine, and business.”

“Hmmm,” Buffy grunted, her eyes glazing over.

“In the sciences, MIT of course has top departments, and I would say they are comparable in quality. But Harvard does publish significantly more papers in top science journals, has more National Academy of Sciences members on the faculty, and has more Nobel Prize winners and Fields Medalists among its alumni. Not just the graduate alumni, but also undergraduate alumni.”

She hummed wordlessly again, looking at her watch. That couldn’t be right. Four and a half more minutes!? Each date was only five minutes total. How could that be right? She’d been listening to this guy for at least five centuries already!

“MIT has been doing very well on the Putnam Competition for the past few years, though, likely because their admissions office has changed their recruitment policy and has been aggressively targeting high school math competition talent…”

Buffy found an interesting water droplet on the table to watch…

**-X-**

“Who shot first, Han Solo or Greedo?” the fourth guy, Walter, asked her, a nerdy little redhead in a plaid shirt with a plethora of pimples, silver braces on his teeth, and a definite dearth of muscles.

“Um, huh?”

“I can’t date anyone who thinks Greedo shot first,” he explained.

“Okay, I’m not sure I’ve formed an opinion on that yet?” Buffy hedged.

“Look, everyone knows Han Solo shot first in his fight with Greedo, the bounty hunter, at Mos Eisley Cantina. When they rereleased _Star Wars: A New Hope_ , they changed how the scene went, showing Greedo shooting first. That’s just wrong! _Han shot first!”_ Walter insisted.

“The issue is that Solo’s character was intentionally a maverick from the beginning,” he continued to explain to Buffy. “So, his shooting without provocation made sense. Having him shoot second made the character more ‘heroic’ up front than was actually the case. It totally ruins his anti-hero mystique.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, totally,” Buffy agreed. “Go anti-heroes!” She furrowed her brow. “Um, what’s an anti-hero, exactly?”

**-X-**

“Live long and prosper,” the next guy greeted her, holding his right hand up, using his fingers to make a ‘V’ shape between the middle finger and ring finger.

“Uh, thank you. You too,” Buffy replied with a polite smile.

The guy huffed, rolled his eyes, and folded his arms over his chest.

“I’m sorry, is that wrong?”

“The proper response to ‘live long and prosper’ is ‘peace and long life,’” he informed her acidly. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Can you even do a Vulcan salute?”

“Is that like a twenty-one-gun salute? Cos I’m thinking I might be able to do that if I have to talk to one more nerd.”

“I’m not a nerd,” he sneered at her. “I’m a _geek_. Geez, blondie, get your head out of your ass.”

**-X-**

“Whaddya say we blow this joint?” the next guy asked. He was trim and seemed well muscled under his tight, blue t-shirt – a swimmer’s build. Nice looking, a smattering of soft freckles on his cheeks and nose, no pimples threatening to burst and spray puss all over her, shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair, super-cute dimple on his chin. “We can go get a bite… want to?”

Buffy’s smile was real for the first time the whole night. “You’re a vampire,” she declared matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, so?” he replied.

“So, I’d love to go outside with you,” she chirped enthusiastically, beaming as she stood up. Saved by a monster! Did that make this guy an anti-hero? She’d have to ask pimple-boy if she ever saw him again.

* * *

**STORY BOARDS**

**Mexico**

**If you have downloaded this Chapter and can't see the photo, you can see[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kwx2NU).**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50885020572/in/dateposted-public/)

**Sunnydale**

**If you have downloaded this Chapter and can't see the photo, you can see[it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2kwx2Uq)**

**[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50447883@N08/50885020892/in/dateposted-public/) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading! Sorry to tease on the postcard. Buffy will get it in the next chapter. Things are gonna start getting a bit intense for Buffy coming up... Cruciamentum is nearing. I’ll have another chapter for you on Saturday.
> 
> If you are a Grey's Anatomy fan, you might've recognized Denny as one of the dates. I couldn't find a good picture of a young-enough JDM to use in the story board, but that's totally who I was thinking of.


	10. 61 955 57 368

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, like yummy treats for my muse!
> 
> As always, my everlasting gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and for all their efforts to keep me from following the pixies into the woods, dark and deep. 
> 
> I apologize for the lack of Spike in this chapter, though he’s here in spirit.

_**** _

* * *

_**Sunnydale.** _

“So, no joy on the speed dating front?” Willow asked as she and Buffy worked on the Angel/Slayer timeline in the library. Giles’ big blue crystal sat on the table not far away. Buffy had finished her focus-exercise with Giles earlier, but the Watcher left when Willow had arrived, leaving the two girls to work on the damnable computer in peace.

“It was the complete opposite of joy… it was joyless, it was un-joy, it was joyless un-joy. I’ve met less monstrous vampires. Well, except for the last guy,” Buffy admitted.

“Oh? Did you guys hit it off?” the witch asked hopefully.

“Uh, yeah, you could say that there was hitting.”

Willow looked concerned.

“He was an actual monster. Vampire,” Buffy explained with a shrug.

“Oh,” Willow sighed. “What was wrong with the rest of them?” she wondered.

“What wasn’t?” Buffy asked, counting off on her fingers. “Too geeky, too nerdy, too nerdy about being geeky, too much information share-y, too piggy, too smart, too dumb, too boring, too sweater-vesty…” _‘Too not-Spike,’_ Buffy’s mind added silently and completely against her will.

“Sweater vest-y?” Willow stopped her.

Buffy rolled her eyes and shrugged. “It was a thing. You really don’t want details.”

“ _None_ of them were potential date-material?” Willow pressed.

Buffy’s shoulders sagged. “I guess one or two, but... I don’t know. There was just something missing. I can’t really put my finger on it,” she fibbed. Despite the confusing, angry, death-wishing postcard, Buffy couldn’t shake the annoying, taken, peroxided vampire from her thoughts. Oh, did she mention _taken_?? Taken! As in _unavailable._ In love with someone else. _Ta-ken! Argh!_

Willow sighed, looking back at the computer screen. “I know what you need!” she exclaimed suddenly, typing quickly on the keyboard. “A ‘perfect guy’ profile... we’ll take a quiz and they’ll tell you the perfect guy for you! Then maybe you can figure out what’s missing.”

“I don’t know…” Buffy hedged. “We really need to be doing this—”

“It’ll only take a minute. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Like speed-dating was fun?” Buffy groused.

Willow looked stricken.

“Okay, fine… ask the questions…” Buffy acquiesced with an eye roll.

Willow’s smile returned in an instant as she looked back at the computer. “Okay, here we go… Build Your Perfect Guy,” she read from the screen. “Question one: ‘First let's start with the face. What is the most important feature to you? Eyes, jaw, smile, or beard?’”

Buffy thought a moment, deciding between eyes and jaw. He needed a strong jaw – a jaw that could take a punch – but eyes… eyes were the mirror to the soul, right? “Eyes,” she decided.

“Okay, two: ‘Which eye color do you prefer?’” Willow continued, reading from the screen. “’Blue like the ocean. The greener the better. Soft brown. Or Hazel?’”

Buffy smiled, remembering a conversation with her mom nearly a year ago about the color of Spike’s eyes… azure or cerulean, sapphire or cobalt, faded denim or tropical ocean… “Blue,” Buffy blurted out, drawing a raised brow from Willow. “What?” the blond demanded.

“Nothing. Blue it is,” Willow agreed, clicking the mouse appropriately. “Okay, three. ‘What hair color do you prefer? Dark hair, brown or black. A blondie is a hottie. I like guys who die their hair fun colors. Or red hair, for the win.’”

Buffy chewed her lip. “You know, what a guy looks like probably isn’t the best way to match up…”

“Just answer the question,” Willow interrupted her.

Buffy rolled her eyes. She could say the ‘fun colors’ one, cos peroxide is a fun color, right? Or brunette, cos beneath it all, Spike was a brunette… And what the hell is she thinking!? She was supposed to stop thinking about Spike. _Gah_!

“This is really meaningless. Can we just skip to the personality stuff?” the Slayer asked.

Willow turned in her seat to face Buffy more fully. “Do you want to answer ‘blond’ but are afraid to?” she wondered, looking at her friend with concern.

“What? No! Blond? _Pfft_! Why would I answer blond?” Buffy replied too vehemently.

Willow lifted her brows. “Are you crushing on Spike?”

“What? No!” Buffy replied automatically.

“Cos, you know, it’s okay if you are,” Willow assured her. “I mean, there’s no judge-y-ness from me, I just… when I mentioned Angel missage you seemed... evade-y. And when you were talking about Spike and his curls the other night, well, it seemed like you might… like him.”

“What?!” Buffy spluttered, her face a mixture of shock, disgust and denial that made her brows raise at odd angles and her mouth twist as if she’d swallowed a lemon. “Will, trust me, there is absolutely, one trillion percent, no liking of Spike, whatsoever!” Buffy waved her hands, as if shooing the idea away.

Willow just looked at her, her brows up, eyes wide, clearly not buying it.

“ _Ppssh_! I mean, like, c’mon, Will. Seriously? _Me_? Liking Spike? You’re totally off base. Your base is, like, on Mars or something. You remember him, right? The piggy vampire who ruined parent-teacher night. There is no liking of Spike!” Buffy stated unequivocally.

“Except his curls and his blue eyes?” Willow suggested, looking at her friend knowingly.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Spike’s an evil, soulless vampire who’s tried to kill me more than once,” she reminded the witch.

“Yeah, all true,” Willow agreed. “And, also, helped you stop Angelus and save Giles… and the world. I give big points for world-save-age. And he gave you a puppy. A-and who you went on a road trip with, including full frontal nudity and no ‘grr-arghing’ the whole time. And your mom and your dog like him!” she finished with a firm nod.

Buffy sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I _can’t_ like him, Will,” she admitted, sounding defeated. “He’s got a girlfriend… remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Willow looked chagrined, dropping her gaze to her hands, which were knotted in her lap.

“Also, vampire,” Buffy continued, frowning. “That way lies badness.”

Willow nodded. “On the plus side, he can’t lose his soul,” she pointed out.

Buffy snorted. “I guess soullessness does come with perks.”

“Buffy, I just… I wanted you to know that I’m here for you, if you need to talk or whatever. Sometimes you can’t help who you crush on. Hey! Guilty voice of experience here,” Willow declared, holding up a hand. “Consider this the ‘best friend, judgement-free zone’ – cos we all need that. Once again, voice of experience. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you to talk to since the whole bowling-debacle.”

“Aww, Wills, you know I’m here for you,” Buffy assured her, reaching over to pull her friend into a hug. “Let’s always be judgement-free besties, okay?”

“Forever and ever,” Willow agreed, hugging her back. They both released the hug at once and Willow sat back, giving Buffy a smile. “So... hair? Blond?”

Buffy laughed, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Fine… blond,” she agreed grudgingly.

Willow grinned conspiratorially. “With curls?”

Buffy blushed. “Cute curls,” she corrected. “Top and bottom.”

The girls giggled like, well, schoolgirls, bumping their shoulders together in good-natured comradery. Buffy had to admit telling someone about her inappropriate crushing made her feel less guilty about it. It didn’t make it right, and she totally needed to stop – which she would! – but, at least she didn’t feel like she was hiding all alone in the shadows with it.

“Okay,” Willow continued, looking back at the quiz after a few moments. “’Which of these is the most important personality trait? Bravery, organization, a good conscience, motivation?’”

“Bravery,” Buffy decided.

“’Pick another trait: Independence, intelligence, loyalty, ambition.’”

“That’s a hard one.” Buffy screwed up her face a moment before deciding, “Loyalty.”

“’Pick one final quality: kindness, free-spirit, generosity, romantic.’”

“Hmmm… romantic,” Buffy chose.

“’What type of sense of humor is your favorite: cheesy, teasing, dirty, flirty?’”

“What’s the difference between teasing, flirty, and dirty?” she wondered.

“It doesn’t say,” Willow admitted.

Buffy shrugged. “Go with flirty.”

“’Is he an extrovert or an introvert?’”

“Extrovert,” Buffy picked.

“’Where do you two go on your first date? To a bar, the movies, the beach, or a nice restaurant?’”

“Food!” Buffy chose vehemently.

“Finally, ‘What is his life plan?’” Willow asked. “’Successful businessman, travel the world, contribute something meaningful to society, or settle down and have a low-key family life.’”

“Does helping me save the world count as ‘contribute to society’?” Buffy wondered.

Willow bobbed her head side-to-side, pursing her lips, thinking. “Well, if the world ended, that would be bad for society, so I’m thinking ‘yes’.”

“Then say that.”

“Calculating results…” Willow read from the screen.

The computer ‘dinged’ and Buffy leaned in to read with her.

_Your Perfect Man - War and Roses:_

_While you may project a happy-go-lucky, silly exterior to the world, secretly you’re a bit of a brain, with razor-sharp instincts, and you know exactly what you want. You don’t have time for games and players, and while far from a dainty princess – deep down you’re looking for a prince. You want the cheeky smolder, the baby blues, and hair you can run your fingers through!_

_Your ideal man will challenge your intellect, as well as your physicality – and he’ll made you giggle, and blush, while he’s doing it! He is bold, courageous, gallant, romantic, and loyal to a fault, a knight who’ll defend you to the bitter end. His word is his bond, and he’ll never ask more than he is willing to give himself. He’ll test your patience at every turn, and push you beyond the limits you place upon yourself – and you’ll be grateful every time he does! Your relationship might have its ups and downs – this much passion and competitiveness is bound to ruffle some feathers – but the making up will always be worth it!_

Buffy sighed. “Does it say where to find him?” she asked hopefully.

Willow pressed the arrows on the keyboard to move the screen down, but nothing happened. “No… what a rip-off!” she complained, frowning.

“I hate to agree with Giles, but I’m losing faith in technology,” Buffy admitted as Willow printed out the results and went to get them from the printer. “You should be able to push a button and have him appear, presto! Magic!”

“Magic?!” Willow asked, turning back to Buffy, her eyes going wide. “Oh! Maybe—"

“No. No magic,” Buffy retracted vehemently, waving a hand in a cutting motion. “I need it to be real, Wills, not a spell.”

“But, maybe to just bring him around…?” she suggested, grabbing the paper from the printer and returning to the table.

“A big ‘No’ on the magic,” Buffy insisted, taking the paper from her and looking at it again.

Willow sagged, dropping back into her seat. “Okay,” she agreed petulantly, switching the computer back to her spreadsheet and the actual project they were supposed to be working on. “Buffy?” the witch asked hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“Does that sound, you know, right? What it says?” the redhead wondered.

Buffy shrugged. “I guess…”

“It, um… doesn’t really sound like Angel. I mean… parts do, but mostly… not so much,” she pointed out.

“I noticed that,” the Slayer admitted.

“Is that good or bad?” Willow wondered.

Buffy sighed, shaking her head. “Good… I guess? I’ve been pretty much figuring that out, anyway, so… maybe that just makes it easier to, you know, make with the moving on.”

Willow nodded. “Does it sound like anyone else you know? Any Buffy-worthy prospects?”

Buffy looked down at the paper again, words jumping out at her like flash-bombs. _Courageous. Bold. Gallant. Romantic. Loyal. Competitive. Passionate. Giggle. Blush._

She shook her head and gave Willow a wan smile. “No, no prospective prospects in the Buffy-verse.” _‘At least none that are available and don’t want me to choke on cheese.’_

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

At home, as had become her habit, Buffy checked the mail on the table by the door. She didn’t really expect another card from Spike after the confusing, angry one she’d gotten last, but, still, she couldn’t stop the hopeful little skip in her heartbeat each night as she picked the stack up. It seemed especially pronounced tonight after that completely ridiculous ‘perfect man’ quiz. Those things probably said the same thing to everyone, regardless of the answers you gave. And what man could really possess all those pie-in-the-sky traits? I mean, _really_? It was ridiculous.

Still, Buffy had the printout in her bookbag with her journal… for entertainment purposes only. It was good for a laugh – _that’s it._

Her mind snapped back to the present when her fingers touched the now-familiar glossy cardboard just beneath the Bed, Bath, and Beyond January ‘White Sale’ flyer.

She pulled it out, her heart not sure if it wanted to stop beating or race off at a gallop. Curiosity got the better of her and Buffy turned it over to read the message before looking at the picture this time. Would it be more profanity? Perhaps him suggesting she do something both vulgar and anatomically impossible? Or go somewhere sweltering and unpleasant? Would he give her some clue what exactly she and cheese had done all these miles away to piss him off?

He did none of those things.

Buffy furrowed her brow, trying to make some sense from the hodge-podge of scribbles and sketches crammed onto the relatively small area. He’d filled nearly every bit of white on the card with something, leaving barely enough space for her address and the stamp. There was a drawing of a heart stuck through with a dagger, blood dripping down all the way to the bottom of the card. She moved over to the light and looked closer… was it a dagger or a stake? It was hard to say. The word, ‘MONSTER’ was written in a large scrawl at the bottom of the card, while, ‘not monster enough,’ was smaller, though no more neatly, to one side. Other words were scattered over the limited area, some upside down, some squeezed in sideways: ‘savage’, ‘sweet’, ‘blood’, ‘ripe plum’, ‘darkness,’ ‘never enough’, ‘TRYING!’. The words ‘eternal’ and ‘destiny’ were written and then crossed through, then written again. And, in the center of all the chaos were the numbers: ‘61 955 57 368’.

“What do you make of that?” Joyce asked, coming in from the kitchen.

Buffy looked up, shaking her head. “Well, one – drunk,” she deduced, flipping the card over and looking at the picture of a bottle of Patrón, the words ‘Keep Calm and Drink Patrón’ in bold red letters beside it, and what she assumed was the name of a bar, ‘Cantina la Fuente’, at the bottom. The alcoholic fumes rising from the cardboard were also an intoxicating clue. “Two – he had a fight with Dru. She probably fooled around on him… _again_.”

Joyce’s expression turned concerned. “Does she do that a lot?”

Buffy shrugged, turning the card back over and focusing on the crossed-out ‘eternal’ and ‘destiny’ and the bleeding, broken heart he’d drawn. Her own heart twisted in sympathy. “I dunno how often… but it’s a thing. She’s not… ummm… really capable of love, not like normal people.”

“Before, you know, last year?” Joyce posited, moving closer to Buffy. Her daughter nodded, looking up to meet Joyce’s eyes. “When Spike first brought me the puppy, he basically said that Dru accused him of not being monster enough for her… that things between them were ‘complicated’.” Joyce sighed, taking the card from Buffy and looking at it again. “It looks like maybe she still thinks so.”

“He’s a _vampire_. He’s the very definition of a monster,” Buffy pointed out. “They make monster movies about them.”

Joyce tilted her head and gave her daughter a skeptical look.

Buffy rolled her eyes and sighed. “Okay, so he’s not as much of a monster as Angelus,” she acquiesced. She chewed her lip, remembering all the horrible things Angelus had done to Drusilla. He’d twisted her into completely depraved knots, where love, pain, death, and sex were all one big pit of insane-o quicksand. And Dru had no way to escape it. Probably Spike was the only thing keeping her from being completely swallowed by it. “Even if that was true, I don’t know what he expects me to do about it,” Buffy pointed out.

“I don’t know either,” Joyce admitted as she handed the card back to Buffy. “I just feel badly for him.”

Buffy snorted and rolled her eyes. “Spike can take care of himself. He’s been with Dru forever. I’m very sure this isn’t their first lover’s spat and probably won’t be their last.”

“No matter how many times your lover cheats on you, it never hurts any less.” Joyce shrugged helplessly.

Buffy gave her mom a sympathetic look, nodding, before lowering her gaze to the postcard again. “What do you think these numbers are?” she asked, desperate for a change of subject. “’61 955 57 368’.”

Joyce shook her head, looking down at the card, still in Buffy’s hand. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“His bill for the tequila?” Buffy suggested, arching a brow at her mom.

Joyce snorted, patting her hand down on Buffy’s shoulder. “Dinner’s ready whenever you are,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

“Speaking of dinner, where’s the chowhound?” the Slayer wondered, looking around for the dog.

“Sleeping in the kitchen,” Joyce told her. “Did you take him on an extra-long patrol or something last night?”

“No,” Buffy replied, her brows furrowing, following her mom toward the kitchen. “In fact, it was pretty dull.”

“Well, something’s got him worn out,” her mom noted, waving a hand at the dog who was sprawled next to the breakfast bar, where he could snatch up any dropped crumbs without moving.

“Hey, buddy,” Buffy cajoled Spike as she knelt down next to him, rubbing his ears the way he liked. “What’s wrong? Is my baby not feeling good?” she asked, her tone devolving into baby-talk. “Huh? Is he all tired out from sleeping all day? Is he? Huh?”

Spike’s tail thumped heavily on the tile floor, his eyes closing dreamily as she scratched his ears and all around his neck. “Is Spikey trying to get out of patrolling tonight? Is that it? Huh? Getting lazy on me?”

The dog’s tail wagged faster, stirring up a breeze as he shook his head, rattling his tags. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned heavily against Buffy, bumming a head-to-tail petting. When she finished and stood up, he shook himself all over to get his coiffure settled back into place, and sauntered over to the back door, looking back at her expectantly.

Joyce shrugged. “I hope he’s not gearing up for another growth spurt,” she groaned. “He’s already got the biggest bed they make.”

Buffy shrugged, setting the postcard down on the counter and heading for the door. “If that happens, we’ll just give him your room and you can sleep on the couch,” she suggested before disappearing outside with the dog.

Joyce chuckled and shook her head, reaching over to pick up the postcard. “I hope you’re okay,” she muttered to the card, shaking her head worriedly. Her motherly instincts kicked in and she suddenly wished she could fix the vampire a big mug of cocoa with plenty of marshmallows, and make him feel better. 

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Later that night, after a quiet patrol, Buffy sat on her bed in her PJ’s, eyes fixed and intent on trying to decipher the numbers on Spike’s postcard. They had to mean something... didn’t they? She’d been thinking about this during her unusually slow trek through Restfield earlier, having to slow her pace for Spike, who was definitely dragging. He’d barked and pointed out a couple of fledges for her, but made no real attempt to catch them, which was one of his most favorite things in the whole world.

Maybe he’d just eaten something that didn’t agree with him or, heaven forbid, was getting ready to go through another growth spurt like her mom had suggested. Right now, he lay sleeping peacefully on his bed in the corner of her room, just like always. Probably be fine tomorrow.

Buffy had ruled out the numbers being things like longitude and latitude, or some kind of code or cypher she was supposed to figure out or anything complicated like that. Spike drunk in a bar was not going to be that clever. “If I were Spike, drunk in a Mexican bar and feeling like shit because Dru was a big ho, what numbers would I write on a postcard to my sworn enemy?” she pondered out loud.

“How many guys Dru’s done over the years?” Buffy continued. She grabbed her journal, turned to the back page, and wrote the number out in normal number fashion: 6,195,557,368. “Is that six _billion_?” she mused, double checking her commas. “Not even Dru could’ve done six _billion_ dudes… could she?” Buffy got up and grabbed her calculator from her schoolbag and figured it up. “Say a hundred years, three hundred and sixty-five days a year…” she muttered, punching it in. “Would be… 169,000 dudes a day.” She shrugged. “Probably not.”

She tapped her pen on the journal page, staring at the numbers. “Could be how much Spike would have to spend on therapy for her… or him. Or how many gallons of tequila he’d need to drink to understand anything she says.” Buffy snorted at her own joke, her eyes glued to the card. “Probably the number of miles he’d walk to fall down at her door… since clearly walking five hundred miles and five hundred more wouldn’t be enough for his _princess_. Oh! It could be his phone number. 1-800-I’m-dating-a-psycho-skank.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Meowwww,” she chided herself. “Catty much?”

She froze when her gaze made its way back down to the postcard. She began writing the numbers in her journal again, this time in a different format: 619-555-7368

“Holy shit.”

The Slayer stared at the number for long minutes, not moving, barely breathing. Had he really sent her his phone number? How did he even have a phone number? Maybe it was the number to the Cantina he’d been in. Was he still there? Had he been sitting there for days, expecting her call? But… why didn’t he just call her if he wanted to talk?

“Duh, because you never gave him your phone number,” she realized. She’d never even thought of it. Buffy swallowed hard and looked at the phone on the bedside table. It looked so harmless sitting there, dependable and serene. Did it know that its cord could reach all the way to Spike? To the Slayer of Slayers? To her mortal enemy? All the way to so much danger? Danger for her heart. Her heart that kept doing little cartwheels whenever she thought about the annoying blond vampire? That skittered and skipped with every postcard? That swooned, seeing only Spike in the results of her ‘perfect guy’ quiz?

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her mind to stop straying to thoughts of him. And it was wrong. So very wrong. Hello! Vampire! Not only a vampire, a soulless vampire with a freaking eternal girlfriend! Nothing but badness could come from thinking about him. Thus, the stop-thinking-about-Spike dating plan, which had failed miserably.

“Bad brain!” she chastised, tapping the end of her pen against her forehead. “Bad, bad, bad!”

Buffy looked at the card again. Clearly, Spike was hurting and reaching out. Reaching out for a friend. Because they were friends, right? Sort of. She’d decided this already, hadn’t she? Frenemies? And who else would you reach out to but your mortal frenemy when your skank of a girlfriend hurts you? There was no badness in being a frenemy. Nope. None at all.

She reached for the phone, pulling it onto the bed with her, chewing her lip. “It might not be a phone number at all. It could be random numbers meant to drive you crazy. It could be his new evil plan.”

Buffy looked between the phone and the postcard, at all the drunken rambling that covered it, at the broken, bleeding heart, which she still wasn’t sure didn’t have a stake in it, not a dagger.

She picked up the receiver. Then put it back down. Took a deep breath and let it out. Picked it back up again. Looked at the keypad. Chewed her lip. Put it back down.

“What are you, twelve?” she muttered, picking the phone back up. Before she could change her mind, she punched in the numbers. After couple of moments, it began to ring. Buffy twirled the cord around her fingers nervously, her stomach filled with butterflies on peyote, fluttering wildly.

She jumped when Spike’s voice sounded in her ear. “If you need me t’ tell you what to do after the beep, then your name must be ‘Peaches’ and you can sod right off.”

Her eyes went wide, and she slammed the phone down before the beep had finished, suddenly having no idea what to say. Her roommate lifted his head up from his XXXL bed and looked at her, decided nothing was in imminent danger, snorted, and promptly went back to sleep.

“Holy shit… Spike has a phone… and he sent me the number,” she muttered, the butterflies in her stomach having migrated to create a tingling thrum through her entire body. “What does that mean?” she wondered aloud. “Does it have to mean anything?”

Buffy’s eyes were drawn to the postcard again. “Maybe it just means he needs a friend,” she decided. “In a friendly, non-butterfly, non-sparkage, non-tingly way.” She steeled her resolve, nodding confidently. “I can totally do that.”

Buffy picked the phone back up and dialed again. She listened to it ring, then to Spike’s voicemail message again, wondering if Angel knew Spike had a phone… if he had the number.

_Beeeeep!_

She hesitated a moment, the fingers of her free hand tangled hopelessly in the curly phone cord, before clearing her throat and saying, “Hey – it’s me… uh, Buffy. Buffy Summers, the Slayer from Sunnydale? The one you wanted to choke on cheese and die?” she rolled her eyes, reminding herself that she wasn’t talking to Percy. “Anyway, I got your card and I just wanted to, you know, check on you… as a friend would do. So, this is me – checking on you. So, umm, if you want to make with the calling back you can just, you know, do that. If you wanted. To call. Okay… bye.”

She had nearly hung the phone up when she jerked it back up. “Sorry – probably would help to have the number, right? Don’t be a smartass. Okay, it’s 831-555-2409. Okay, um, hate you… bye.”

She hesitated, listening to the silence on the other end of the line a moment before adding softly, “I hope you’re okay, Spike.”

Buffy hung up and sighed, untangling her fingers from the cord so she could put the phone back on the nightstand. “You are so lame,” she scolded, flopping back on the bed. “You should have totally said ‘okay’ a few more times! Twelve years of formal education, 1430 on your SATs, and that’s the best you could do? Vocabulary is your friend – you should give it a try!”

Buffy reached over and switched off the lamp, leaving the room bathed in pale moonlight shining in through the window. She turned onto her side and looked up at the bright moon. Somewhere, he was bathed in that same moonlight… with Dru. His destiny.

Buffy closed her eyes, holding in the traitorous tears that threatened. “I really do hope you’re okay, Spike,” she whispered. She sent the wish out to him on the moonbeams as she held Spike’s liquor-drenched, bleeding and broken heart in a gentle embrace, hoping it wasn’t a stake that had caused it pain.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Story Board**

If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find [**it at this link**](https://flic.kr/p/2kwXXBd). 

* * *

**End Notes:**

Again, I apologize for the lack of Spike, but I hope you felt him in spirit. We will be back to him in the next chapter! Thank you so much for reading. It's hard to express how much it means to know other people are enjoying the story, but it really does warm the cockles! Will have more soon.

I took a few ‘find the perfect guy’ tests on the internet trying to answer as this Buffy would, and sort of combined all the various answers they gave into the one here, with a little tweaking. Funnily, a lot of the answers really did sound like Spike. I don't know if they had these online back in 1999, but I'd guess so? I know they had them in every magazine you picked up!

You may be wondering why Buffy isn't feeling weak yet. My theory is that Giles would have had to have her practice focusing a while before he actually gave her the drugs, just to make sure she was fully entranced and wouldn't snap out of it and catch him. 

The reference to Spike walking ‘five hundred miles and five hundred more’ is from the song by The Proclaimers: ‘I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)’ [**https://youtu.be/tbNlMtqrYS0**](https://youtu.be/tbNlMtqrYS0)

_But I would walk 500 miles_   
_And I would walk 500 more_   
_Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles_   
_To fall down at your door_


	11. The Big House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, like sugar cookies for my muse!
> 
> As always, my everlasting gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and for all their efforts to keep me mostly on plot.

**__ **

* * *

**_Mexico._ **

Following the pixies, an empty bottle of tequila in his hand, Spike stumbled back into their hotel room to find Dru, naked and clean, curled up on the floor around the splatters of blood he’d left behind. She looked up at him dreamily as he closed the door and slumped back against it for support. His head swam and seriously considered sinking to the bottom of the ocean and taking up residence there.

“My Spike bleeds so prettily,” Drusilla cooed in a wistful voice, running her fingers over the dried smears, smudges, and splashes of red on the white tile. “A masterpiece of life and death,” she asserted, rising from the floor like a languid cat and prowling over to her childe. She took the empty bottle from him and set it down before lifting his hand to her lips, kissing his scabbed knuckles gently, lovingly.

Spike reached out and drew an unsteady finger along the remnants of a deep gouge he’d left on her breast. Her soft, creamy skin was still covered in nearly healed scratches, bites and cuts, just as his body was. Wounds he’d reveled in giving her. Wounds she screamed for. Wounds she craved.

Wounds that made the liquor in his stomach threaten to join his blood on the floor. _‘Monster enough for ya now?’_

He dropped his hand and closed his eyes against the reminders that scarred her skin. It seemed so long ago now – that alley, the fury, the green eyes – lost in the fog of alcohol. He shook his head, trying to get the inexplicable shame and sorrow to sink into the miasma of tequila, where it’d hopefully remain. The head shake had been a mistake. He wobbled where he stood, but his lover’s strong hands steadied him.

“The pixies have brought you home to mummy,” she whispered between delicate touches of her lips to his cool flesh. “Where you belong.”

Spike couldn’t help but feel comforted beneath Drusilla’s ministrations, her soft touch, her lilting voice, her delicate lips. He felt the last knots slowly unfurl from his belly and chest, loosening the strangle-hold of green eyes that tequila hadn’t yet vanquished. His eyes fluttered open to watch her soothe his nearly mended wounds, her silken, chestnut hair falling in sensuous waves around her bare shoulders, her long nails, so deadly and cruel, giving way to tender fingertips. He listened to her hum a comforting tune, something old… a child’s lullaby that he couldn’t quite place.

With unexpected kindness, she led him to the bed, and Spike followed as if in a dream, lost in the sweet attention of his sire, such a sharp contrast to their brutal coupling in the alleyway. He made no protest as she undressed him, her hands a balm against his ravaged skin. He let her lay him down, sinking into the embrace of the soft mattress, imagining it was a cloud and Dru was an angel. She kissed his skin reverently, taking away the old sting of the bites and gashes that peppered his body. Spike’s lids fell closed, and the accusing green eyes faded completely, vanishing in the mist of Patrón, coupled with his sire’s strange, but welcome tenderness. He let himself get lost, as well, floating in the gentle perfection of her lips and fingertips, of her body pressing against his, of her murmurs, and the soft song she hummed.

Spike inhaled, able to draw a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like days, and let it out in a contented sigh as he drifted off into the welcoming darkness of sleep.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike chased the green-eyed girl through the streets and alleyways, past churches and brothels, street vendors selling cheese-laden quesadillas and sugar-coated churros. His boots crunched over gravel and sunk in the sand, slipped through slick mud and echoed off red bricks. Dogs barked as he passed, a cat darted across his path, rats scurried away, taking shelter in the sewer drains. The moon was big and bright – he could see her clearly – just ahead, always out of reach. She’d disappear around corners, but only for a moment, then he’d find her again, running, always running, her bare feet silent, her heart pounding in his ears as if it was his own.

He ran and ran, but she never got any closer. She looked back over her shoulder, her dark hair flying, chancing a glance at her pursuer. Her green eyes seared into him like hot pokers, making him stumble and fall… and fall, and fall. He fell through blackness, which froze him, and sunbeams, which burned him, the cold and the heat ripping him apart in a painful game of tug-o-war.

His chest exploded with the searing agony of feeling caught between worlds, not belonging in either. Not monster enough for the dark. Too monstrous for the light. He screamed as his ribcage burst outward, rib bones shattering into thousands of blood-soaked shards of white. The sharp splinters stabbed into his heart as his body bowed and convulsed, neither alive nor dead, but lost between the two.

Spike jerked awake expecting blood and gore, only to find his sire beside him, cooing soothingly into his ear. He curled into her, slipping back into the tequila-fueled sleep that gave him no rest. And he ran. He ran after the green-eyed girl.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy came rushing into the library half-an-hour late for her interview with a vampire. “Sorry!” she called immediately as she hurried to the table where Angel was waiting.

He looked up, setting the book down that he’d been reading to pass the time. “Thought you weren’t gonna make it,” he said, standing automatically as she dumped her bookbag on the table.

Her stomach knotted a bit when she realized he’d been reading one of the Watcher’s Diaries they’d been using to put together the Slayer timeline to match up with his. He couldn’t just read ‘Blood Rites and Sacrifices’ or ‘Carpe Jugulum’ like a normal vampire? She rolled her eyes – no, he couldn’t, because Snyder and the Moo-Nazi book brigade, under ‘orders’ from some Hansel and Gretel demon, had confiscated most of Giles’ books… even the fiction! They were then handily used for kindling to try and cook one Slayer and two witches. Luckily, they hadn’t taken the diaries, which were literally irreplaceable. The Council really should look into scanning their books onto computer files, or come into the nineteenth century, at least, and photocopy them.

Oh, also luckily, and no thanks to the vampire who loomed across the table from her, they hadn’t managed to parboil her, Willow, or Amy.

The only huge plus to come out of the last few days was that Buffy’s mom was so guilt-ridden about trying to kill her only daughter that she’d taken Buffy on a shopping trip. It was a welcome change to the normal ‘guilt-trip’ routine which usually involved intervention meetings arranged behind Buffy’s back instead of shopping sprees in her honor. Even though it rarely got cold enough to warrant it in California, she’d gotten a super-soft, light pink, faux-fur, long-sleeved pullover to wear to the Ice Capades show later in the month with her dad. It was cozy and warm and would be perfect for the chill of the arena.

On the downside, Amy was now a rat. Literally. But she had a snazzy new exercise wheel and no gym membership required. Gotta love the Hellmouth.

Buffy shook her stray thoughts off and started pulling her own journal from the bag. “Spike’s not been feeling good. He doesn’t want to eat or patrol, I can barely get him to walk around the backyard,” she explained. “I was trying to get him to eat something… even brought him a burger, but he just took a couple of bites and fell back to sleep.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Angel said flatly, still standing.

“I’m sure you are,” Buffy replied sarcastically, sitting down and opening her journal to the next blank page.

“I am!” Angel insisted, taking his seat again across from her. “I don’t want anything to happen to him… I just wish he’d stop peeing in my shoes.”

Buffy sighed and slumped slightly in her chair. That actually was not an unreasonable request, she just hadn’t figured out how to get the dog to give up that particular preoccupation. “Mom’s taking him to the vet tomorrow. I really can’t figure it out. He doesn’t seem to be sick, just really tired.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine in a couple of days,” Angel offered placatingly.

“I hope so,” she sighed, looking down at her book, trying to focus on the mission. She really wanted to ask him where the hell _he_ had been when the whole town had been reenacting the Salem Witch Trials in Sunnydale’s City Hall. It might’ve been handy to have a vampire on their side in that fight. Of course, she had told him to stay out of her slayage business multiple times, so maybe that was what he’d been doing – actually listening to her for once. On the other hand, it seemed like giving a hand in a dire, about to be roasted like a pig on a spit, emergency, might warrant a little breaking of that rule.

This was all way too complicated. Even _she_ had to admit that Angel knowing when his help would be wanted or not would be nearly impossible for him to figure out. It was nearly impossible for _her_ to figure out.

“Okay,” she said after a few moments, getting down to business. “Uh, we got through 1900 and Beijing. Spike killed the Slayer… Dru and Darla were there, Boxer Rebellion, yada, yada, yada. Do you remember where you went after Beijing?” she asked, looking back up at him, her pen poised to start recording dates and places.

“Okay… uh, yeah, Beijing… give me a minute. It was a long time ago.”

“Did you leave Beijing with anyone, or alone?” Buffy asked, trying to jog his memory.

“Alone…” he admitted. “Darla… she told me to leave when I couldn’t… prove myself to her.”

Buffy’s brows rose, a small smirk forming on her lips despite her worry about Spike. “Performance anxiety?”

Angel huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “She wanted me to kill a baby!”

“Oh a different kind of performance,” Buffy acquiesced, letting her amusement fall. “So, she told you to leave – where did you go?”

Angel closed his eyes, apparently searching his memories. Buffy wasn’t so sure his memory was that bad, but she waited – it had become a habit over the course of these interviews – only sighing once more before he began speaking. “I snuck on a ship, stayed in the hold the whole time. Didn’t know or care where it was going. Ended up in France. I got off and got on another ship to England. Spent some time in London, then Dublin, then took another ship to New York,” he related, opening his eyes finally to look at her.

Buffy was scribbling all this down in the journal in front of her, all business now. “So, what year did you go to New York?”

“About… 1902,” Angel said, but he didn’t sound too sure. Buffy was used to that and didn’t bother to ask him if he was asking her or telling her.

“Okay, 1901, London and Dublin, 1902 New York. Did anything happen I need to include here? Did you meet up with the old gang at any point? Any deaths or exceptionally morose brooding?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “No, no, and no,” he answered curtly. “I really don’t know why you need this – I wasn’t hunting, wasn’t hurting anyone, I was just minding my own business. Why does the Council care?”

“Like they’d tell me?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “They just want the whole history of Angelus, and, we had him here in Sunnydale just last year, so Giles said to document as much as I could all the way up to current. You know how he is! If I don’t do this, he’s gonna have me scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush or something.”

“I think they just do that in the army,” Angel grumbled. “And probably only fictional armies.”

Buffy arched a brow at him. “You saw ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “No, I read ‘Im Westen Nichts Neues’.”

“I’m West In what now?” Buffy asked, her brows furrowing.

“’All Quiet on the Western Front’, ‘Im Westen Nichts Neues’ in German,” Angel explained, as if, duh! Who didn’t know that?

“Oh. How American of me,” she grumbled. “So, you speak German?”

“Enough to get by,” he hedged.

 _‘And read a whole book in it,’_ she thought. “What other languages do you speak?”

“Uh… a few. French, Spanish, Italian, Latin,” he listed.

Buffy wrote that down. “What about… uh, Chinese? You were in China, right?” She hoped that sounded casual.

“No, not really,” he answered. “We usually just found someone who spoke English and Chinese – or whatever language we needed – and turned them… minion interpreters.”

“Handy,” she deadpanned. Though it made sense, she’d never thought of that. She really wanted to ask him if he spoke Romani – the gypsy language the curse had been in – but wasn’t sure how to work that in without setting off flares. Why hadn’t she asked him that when they were covering Romania? Stupid! Spike said Angel did, but it would be better right from the vampire’s mouth. 

“Okay, uh, New York, 1902, nothing unusual happened. How long did you stay there?” she asked, getting back to the timeline.

“Maybe five years,” he provided.

“Okay, New York 1902 to about 1907, then where?” she continued.

Angel sighed. “Uh… I went down to New Orleans for a while, Savannah, Chicago, Missouri… Mexico for a while,” he rambled.

“Whoa, hang on. Can you be a bit more specific on dates and any, you know, highlights or lowlights to include in the travel guide?” Buffy requested. “And, pretty sure Mexico is a sorta big place, can you narrow that down for me?”

Angel rolled his eyes and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes in concentration. “Okay,” he began, New Orleans… Mardi Gras… I stole a gator out of a roadside zoo and drained it.”

“Eww… What did it taste like?”

Angel shrugged. “Chicken.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike covered his head when something began hammering much too loudly and much too near. “Sod off!” he yelled when he realized it was someone at the door. When the banging continued without respite, actually growing louder, he flung himself up and across the room, still starkers, and yanked the door open. He was ready to rip the intruder’s head off and shower in their blood, but froze when green eyes met his.

“Buffy…?” he gasped. A tidal wave of emotions from shock to joy to alarm to elation rolled through him, stopping him from saying more.

The Slayer’s eyes went wide as they slid down his body, her face flushing as red as the chili peppers so prevalent in the local cuisine. “Spike… you’re naked.”

He looked down at himself and shrugged, getting his jumbled emotions under control, or at least slightly subdued. He squared his shoulders and ran a hand down to scratch his stomach, drawing Buffy’s eye to is bellybutton… and below. “Yeah, well, it’s how I sleep. Know that, you do,” he replied with a smirk.

“Um, right,” she replied, her heart rate thudding like a crescendo of fireworks in Spike’s ears.

“My eyes are up here, Slayer,” he pointed out, the smirk growing.

Buffy’s wide eyes shot back up to his face, heat radiating from her skin in waves, also reminding Spike of those tasty, ‘muy caliente’ peppers. “You look okay…” she rasped, sounding confused.

Spike’s brows went up. “Okay!?” he asked incredulously. “I look a helluva lot better than ‘okay’, Slayer… least that fluttering heart o’ yours says so.”

“No, yeah, I mean… I just meant… you’re... ummm… yeah, better than okay,” she spluttered, her face bordering on spontaneous combustion. 

He curled his tongue against his teeth a moment before asking, “So, were ya just in the neighborhood, thought you’d stop by, or did you just miss ogling my hot, tight little body?”

Buffy cleared her throat and found an interesting spot on the doorjamb to stare at. “You… your postcard,” she stuttered, holding up the item in question which featured a bottle of Patrón.

Spike’s brows furrowed. What the fuck was she on about? “That’s not from me.”

Her eyes widened and she looked back at him, carefully keeping her gaze trained on his face or, at least, above the waist. She turned the card over for him to see the message. _‘Slayer, please help me,’_ was scribbled in an unsteady hand, the letters spaced randomly, some sized much larger than others, with no punctuation or signature. “You’re telling me that’s not from you? You’re the only person I know in Mexico who calls me ‘Slayer’,” she pointed out. “In fact, you’re probably the only person I know in Mexico, period.”

Spike’s mouth dropped open and he grabbed it from her hand, his eyes glued to the words, then the postmark, then back to the words. He flipped it over and looked at the picture, demanding his pickled brain remember. The bar. The tiny bottles that weren’t bottles. _Bloody hell._

“Spike? Are you okay?” Buffy asked, her voice full of concern.

The vampire shook his head, never lifting his gaze from the postcard. “I dunno…” he admitted, clenching his jaw against the raw emotions that surged through him again. _Not monster enough_.

“Can I come in? Maybe make less with the nudity?” she asked, still trying to keep her eyes averted as much as humanly possible from the naked vampire standing in front of her.

A stab of panic twisted in Spike’s gut as he looked back at the bodies piled like cordwood in the back of the room. “Just give me a mo’,” he requested, slamming the door in her face.

Spike yanked on a pair of jeans, not bothering with the buttons, grabbed his smokes and lighter, and opened the door again, preparing to step out into the hall, but Buffy had other plans. As soon as the door opened again, she pushed in, knocking Spike back a few steps. “Oi! Didn’t invite you in!” he objected, moving to cut off her field of vision.

“One: it’s a hotel room, no invite needed, and two: not a vampire, double the no invite needed quotient,” she pointed out, sliding past him to see what he was hiding from her.

“Bloody hell! Were you raised by sodding wolves? It’s not _polite_!” he objected, trying to move back in front of her, but it was too late, she was past him, already staring at the neat stack of bodies. Hair in an array of colors and styles fell lank from the tops of the lolling heads that faced her, each lifeless body piled atop another like split pine, waiting to be burnt.

Tears welled in her eyes as she took it all in. The death. The destruction. The pain. The blood. “How many?” she whispered.

“Buffy,” he breathed, interspersing himself between the Slayer and the array of victims piled up for her inspection. The green-eyed girl lay artfully draped on her back atop it all, dark hair cascading down toward the floor along with her limp arms, accusing eyes open and staring. “It’s not what you think,” Spike defended, trying not to look at the one that haunted his nightmares. “Not all dead, are they?” he pointed out, going over to lift one head up by the hair, drawing a moan from the owner, a middle-aged woman with grey just starting to creep into dark tresses.

“But mostly dead…” Buffy pointed out, blinking back the tears.

Spike sighed, running a hand back through his sleep-tousled curls. “Tried, pet, I tried… but… Dru…” He picked up a Styrofoam container with dried blood crusted in the bottom to show her. “Even bagged it much as I could!” the vampire defended piteously. “Tried t’ steer Dru away from the tots.”

“I’m sure Lisa and her family appreciates your efforts,” Buffy sneered.

A fiery dagger twisted in Spike’s gut. _‘It’s not fair!’_ The bloody container fell from numb fingers. _‘It’s not fair!’_ His heart plummeted. “Buffy, please, pet...”

Green eyes met his. Not Lisa’s; Buffy’s. Shimmering. Angry. Hurt. Disappointed. Indignant. Accusing. Then they hardened into stone, green granite flashing with fury.

“You wanted to be a monster? Congratulations,” she seethed. “You got your wish.” Buffy flung herself at him, stake suddenly in her hand, coming straight for Spike’s chest.

He raised his arms, blocking her thrust, grabbing her wrist and just barely stopping the stake from penetrating his skin. Her momentum tumbled them both to the floor and they began to struggle in earnest. Spike’s demon rose with a roar and he lunged for her neck, still keeping the stake from plunging into his breast. Buffy put an arm up and clasped her fingers around his neck, halting his attack, his fangs poised to sink into her flesh.

The two warriors struggled against each other. Strength against strength. Fangs against wood. Vampire against Slayer. They rolled over the dried masterpiece of blood Spike had left on the floor, first Buffy on top, then Spike. Fangs nipping at her soft skin, pine digging at his.

And then they were free-falling through space, through starlight and sunbeams, rolling, twisting, spinning out of control. Darkness and light flashed over their bodies like strobes as they plummeted, locked together in a life-and-death struggle, each fighting for control.

Too monstrous for the light.

Not monster enough for the dark.

Spike gasped, jerking up to a sitting position in bed, his eyes wild as he scanned the dark room. He was alone. No Slayer. No Dru, either. He rubbed his chest, sure he’d find blood from the stake breaking his skin, but found nothing. He looked around for the piles of bodies, but again, there were none.

The rattled blond took a deep breath and let it out slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He grabbed his smokes from the bedside table and lit one with trembling fingers, taking in a deep draw of the soothing nicotine. The vampire braced one elbow on his thigh and dropped his forehead into his hand. His fingers massaged his aching head as he tried to remember. He’d gone to a bar. He’d gotten utterly pissed. When was that? A day ago? A week? He couldn’t remember how he got back here. He remembered Dru, she’d been loving and sweet. Or had he dreamed that, like he’d dreamed about Buffy? He looked down at himself – he’d been cleaned up, most of his wounds were healed – Dru had done that.

“Right… Dru was real, the Slayer wasn’t,” he confirmed aloud, taking another drag on the cigarette. “What about the bloody postcard?” he wondered to himself, shaking his head as he dropped it back into his hand. “You aren’t that much of a ponce, are you?”

Spike sighed.

Of course he was.

“Bugger me.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

“How are you progressing?” Giles asked Buffy after Angel left.

“I think he’s purposely dragging this out,” Buffy replied, rolling her eyes. “We only made it to the thirties,” she admitted, pulling out the printout that Willow had made of all the Slayers, their cities and dates that they’d found so far. “We already know about Xin Rong in China in 1900,” she continued, looking at the chart.

Buffy looked back up at Giles, who was standing at the end of the table, listening. “By the way, Angel says he doesn’t speak Chinese, so…” she shrugged. “Might’ve been hard to woo a Chinese Slayer.”

“Hmm,” Giles replied as he started walking back over towards his office.

“But he was in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico in 1923 when the Slayer, Maria de Castilla, was in El Paso. Those cities are, like, right next to each other,” Buffy continued as Giles disappeared into his office a moment.

“Oh, yes?” he asked back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, and we know he speaks Spanish,” Buffy continued. “And he was in Chicago in 1927 when Mildred Meyers was the Slayer there.”

“Uh-huh,” Giles replied absently, coming back out of his office with the big blue crystal he’d had Buffy using to hone her focus.

“Yep,” Buffy replied. “And he was in Hollywood when Greta Garbo was the Slayer in the ‘30s,” she offered, testing him.

“Oh, was he?” Giles continued, setting the crystal down on the table in front of Buffy.

Buffy rolled her eyes, put the chart away, and closed her journal. “Yep, and he saw Amelia Earhart off from Miami in 1937.”

“Fascinating,” Giles agreed, finally looking at Buffy. Suddenly his face clouded with confusion. “Amelia Earhart was a Slayer?”

“Earth to Giles,” Buffy groused impatiently. “You haven’t been listening to me at all. I think you need to do the focus-y thing tonight instead of me.”

“I do beg your pardon,” he apologized. “I must have too much on my mind.”

“Yeah, I know, loss of all those old books was major trauma… not like the fun of nearly getting burned at the stake,” she agreed with an eye roll. “I’m surprised you can even breathe in here without all that mustiness floating around.”

Giles removed his glasses and began cleaning them. “Yes, well… some of them were quite rare… possibly irreplaceable, while quarrelsome teenage girls are rather less so,” he deadpanned, placing his glasses back on his nose.

“As if,” Buffy grumbled. “You’d miss me if I was gone,” she pouted.

“Perhaps a bit, but only after the initial respite from constant pop-culture references and the mangling of the English language has been enjoyed,” he agreed dryly, not cracking a smile. “So, have you learned anything conclusive about Spike’s theory?”

Buffy rolled her eyes then rubbed them tiredly. “Well, from what Willow and I have found, in the 150 years _before_ being cursed, Angelus had only crossed paths with a Slayer once. In 1888 in London. There are some gaps in the Slayer records that we still need more diaries for, but just once in all that time? He wasn’t big on path-crossing.”

“Indeed not,” Giles agreed.

“Especially considering we know of five times after the curse… so far. Beijing, Mexico, Chicago, New York, and Sunnydale. And we still have, like sixty years to cover,” Buffy revealed.

“It sounds almost like he had been purposely _avoiding_ Slayers as Angelus,” Giles observed.

“That’s kinda what I thought,” she agreed. “So, after the curse, he’d either gotten very bad at avoiding them or…” Buffy let her voice trail off, shrugging. She didn’t want Spike to be right. She didn’t want to be even more of a dupe and a pawn and a naïve fool than she already felt. But the evidence was starting to stack up against that hope. Of course, Angel being in the same city as the Slayer five times – that she knew of so far – wasn’t _proof_ that he was seeking Slayers out. It could’ve just been his bad luck.

Awfully bad luck.

She wondered how many times Spike had been in the same city as the Slayer over the years. How did he even find her? It had to take forever to travel in those days. Unless he was already close, how could he even get there before she’d already passed the torch to someone else? From all the names and dates they’d uncovered so far, the majority of Slayers didn’t last more than a few months, some not more than a few hours, one, according to the diaries, lasted all of five minutes.

With her eighteenth birthday fast approaching, Buffy was already becoming one of the longest-lived Slayers they’d documented. Maybe she could ask the Slayer of Slayers… if he ever called her back, that is. Which he hadn’t. That was another worry that she was trying not to think about — was he just ignoring her, or was there something terribly wrong? But she hadn't worked up the nerve to call him again; she'd made a big enough fool of herself the first time.

“Well, perhaps we should put that aside now and continue your concentration training,” Giles suggested, moving the large blue crystal in front of Buffy on the table.

Buffy sighed and put her journal and pen back in her bookbag before taking a deep breath and letting it out, starting the now-familiar process. “I still think Faith needs some of this focus. Where the hell was she when we were burning at the stake, anyway? She could headline in Vegas as the next Houdini the way she vanishes into thin air. Where the hell does she go on these disappearing acts?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Giles admitted. “She does seem quite…”

“Quarrelsome?” Buffy suggested cheekily.

Giles snorted lightly. “To say the least. Come along, now… find the flaw,” he encouraged.

The practice Buffy had been doing focusing on the crystal had made this particular exercise second nature to her now. It only took a moment for her to find the flaw and for her mind to quiet, to fall into it, for everything else around her to disappear.

Giles waited for her body to go slack, for her eyes to glaze over. “Buffy?” he asked gently. “Can you hear me?”

When she didn’t reply, he carefully removed a leather-bound case from his bag and opened it, taking out a syringe and a vial. He filled the syringe carefully, called her name one more time, cleaned the skin on her arm with an antiseptic wipe, and injected her with the serum. When everything was put back into his bag, and all was as it was when she’d fallen into the trance, Giles waved his hand in front of the crystal to break her concentration.

Buffy blinked and jumped a little in her seat. “Sorry… I must’ve zoned out,” she apologized. “Spike hasn’t been feeling well and I’m just worried…”

“It’s quite all right,” Giles cajoled. “We’ll try again tomorrow. I hope it’s nothing serious with Spike?”

Buffy shrugged, standing up and picking up her bag. “Mom’s taking him to the vet tomorrow. He won’t eat, doesn’t want to patrol… nothing,” she explained.

“The vet? D-do you believe that’s necessary?” Giles asked with concern. “Perhaps it’s just a little bug he’s picked up. He does regularly bite into vampires and demons, after all. Even a Guardian of his caliber must have a reaction at some time or another. It’ll likely pass in a few days,” the Watcher suggested.

“I hope so, but better safe than daisy food, right?” Buffy pointed out.

Giles’ brow furrowed a moment, then cleared. “Pushing up daisies...” he translated. “Yes, indeed,” the man sighed, looking concerned. “You say he’s not eating properly?”

“Hardly at all...”

“I have some of those treats he enjoys. Perhaps he’d eat them?” Giles suggested, reaching into his bag and pulling out a Ziploc containing several pieces of what looked like beef jerky.

Buffy took them from him, shrugging. “I’ll try. Thanks.”

“Certainly. I hope he feels better,” Giles replied, giving her a tight smile, though his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

Buffy nodded but didn’t look convinced. “I hope so. See you tomorrow. Oh! I forgot to tell you, my dad’s taking me to the ice capades next Friday for my birthday – it’s kind of a thing we do. Then I’m staying the weekend in L.A. – much absentee dad-guilt shopping is on the menu – so I won’t be here to patrol for a couple of days.”

Giles nodded stiffly. “That, uh, sounds enjoyable.”

“I know, dumb girly stuff – but I am still a girl! At least until the nineteenth,” she quipped. “Then, apparently, I’m suddenly an adult. My juvenile record will be expunged. Next time I get arrested for murder, they’ll put me in the big house. Go me!”

“Yes, the big house, indeed,” he agreed, giving her another forced smile. “That will be… yes… quite good.” 

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Story Board**

**Mexico**

If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find **[it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2kyAhvM)**

**Story Board**

**Sunnydale**

If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find **[it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2kyzCtD)**

* * *

**End Notes:**

For the piecing together of the Slayer timeline, I used the Wiki page that lists all the Slayers (some are canon, some are from ‘alternate, dubious, or non-canon sources’, which usually means licensed novels). You can find it here, if you’re interested: <https://buffy.fandom.com/wiki/Slayer_timeline>

In some cases, I filled in blank spots both in Angel’s timeline and the Slayer’s with my own ideas. The 1888 meeting of a Slayer in London is from a Buffyverse non-canon but authorized novel called ‘Blood and Fog’, which I haven’t read, but I ordered one cheap from Amazon, just to see what exactly happened in it and decide if I want to use it later.

Thank you sooo much for reading!! I love and appreciate you all!!

The last chapter of this episode will post on Saturday. I will start posting the next episode, which is complete at 38 chapters on Sunday, so you won’t have to wait long since this one ends with (evil, sarcastic voice) _just a few things_ left unresolved.


	12. My Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a ‘like’/’kudos’. It seriously means so much to me, like churros for my muse!
> 
> Warning: This is the other part I warned about at the start of the story. Trigger warning for sexual threats to a child. Also some Sprusilla smut (not overly graphic).
> 
> As always, my everlasting gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making. Holi117 was instrumental in bringing this whole story to life – I had originally intended to skim over it. I’m so glad she talked me out of that idea! Thank you!

**__ **

* * *

**_Mexico._ **

After his day of fitful sleep and disturbing, tequila-fueled dreams, Spike had awakened alone in the hotel room. Dru hadn’t left a note – nothing unusual there – and still hadn’t returned after Spike had taken a shower and gotten dressed. So, he headed out into the night, looking for a meal and contemplating if more Patrón would make him feel better or worse. A stroll down by the ocean walk told him that it had been a while since the scene in the alley – just how long had he spent in that bar, anyway? The tequila haze wasn’t particularly helpful in counting sunsets. The tattered remnants of crime-scene tape suggested it had been a few days, at least. The flimsy yellow barrier had been haphazardly taken down, leaving only scraps marking the area. He kept walking, keeping his head down and his eyes averted from the spot where he could still see the accusing, dead green eyes staring up at him.

He bumped into a few tourists – literally – slipping supernaturally-fast, nimble fingers into pockets and open purses and coming away with cash and cards. He pocketed the cash but dumped the rest, aware of the changing times, of the ability to track the credit cards, and of growing prevalence of store security cameras. It certainly was getting more difficult to be a proper vampire these days. It almost made him nostalgic for the years when vampires ruled the night, when streets were dark, there was no six o’clock news, and cameras were the size of houses… or at least suitcases.

Of course, there were no tellies then or Sex Pistols or blooming onions. So, maybe he didn’t miss it that much.

With his pockets refilled with colorful ‘Banco de Mexico’ notes, Spike began looking for a meal. He turned off the well-lit El Malecon and onto the darker side streets. Tourists still meandered here, where slightly less expensive restaurants and shops operated, just a bit off the popular beach walk. The vampire’s well-honed hunting instincts automatically began considering prospects, weighing options and risks, following behind tasty-smelling meals, waiting for his chance. But, for a myriad of reasons, chances didn’t seem to present themselves.

The reasons were all logical, prudent even – the prospective Happy Meal went into a crowded bar or restaurant, they met up with their group in the street, they got in a taxi, or went into a well-lit shop. They were all perfectly good reasons and had nothing whatsoever to do with green eyes watching him from his dreams and nightmares.

Spike lit a fag as he turned to look into the window of a small boutique, waiting for a new dinner opportunity to wander past. A sparkling necklace in the display caught his eye and he moved a couple of steps down to look more closely. The ruby-red stones glimmered brightly, were shaped like teardrops, and seemed to trickle down the delicate chain like drops of blood.

Dru would love it – and, though he wasn’t sure what the current date was, he was sure her birthday was coming up soon. A fond smile curved Spike’s lips, remembering how gentle and caring she’d been after his drunken return, how she’d stayed with him, murmuring comforts when he’d awoken from nightmares. Maybe the worst was past now. Maybe they’d both needed a reminder of just who he was and what he was capable of – plenty monster enough. He imagined her child-like delight as he gave her this bauble, how she’d titter and fuss over it… and over him. He took another drag of his cigarette, considering. He looked around to judge the foot traffic and find escape routes. Smash and grab would be the fastest and easiest option… He tapped experimentally on the glass, only then realizing it was heavy plexiglass – not easily smashed.

Well, he had a pocket full of banknotes, he’d just see how much it was. He took one last inhalation of nicotine before dropping the butt on the sidewalk and sauntering in the shop. Once inside, he meandered around, not wanting to appear too eager, looking at different jewelry in the cases and art on the walls. There was an intricately-painted, bold and colorful ceramic wall hanging which caught his eye. An eclipse, a crescent moon covering one side of a sun. The sun and moon both had faces, their lips nearly touching as the beacon of the night encroached on the symbol of light. Inlaid within the curve of the moon were small white stones which twinkled like stars, and around the circle of the sun were small dots of golden gems, which shimmered warmly.

It reminded him of the Slayer – of how she lived in both worlds, of how the darkness always seemed to be trying to swallow her light. But she shone too brightly for that to happen, the threat of the dark not enough to snuff her effulgence. He was suddenly reminded that her birthday was also coming up soon. Bloody poetic, that – the bane of his existence sharing a birthday with the love of his unlife. If he was good and drunk, he could probably compose a line or two about that.

Spike ran his fingertips over the wall hanging, enjoying the feel of the smooth surface. The small, embedded stones flashed and sparkled as it moved slightly at his touch. He thought it would be dazzling in natural sunlight, and wondered if Buffy would like the vibrant colors and celestial design. Sure, there wasn’t any cheese involved, but everything didn’t have to be about food, did it? He was certain she’d get the deeper meaning of it, beyond the ‘oh, pretty’ aspect of the ornate Mexican design. Would she hang it in her room, above her bed maybe? Or on the opposite wall where she could see it as she fell asleep and woke up each morning?

The vampire stopped and blinked, his brain finally catching up to his traitorous thoughts. “Are you out of your bleeding mind?” Spike growled to himself, banging a fist against his forehead. “Not getting the sodding Slayer a fucking birthday gift. Every argument you’ve had with Dru is cos of that bossy bint,” he asserted, turning away from the wall hanging. “What ya need to give her for her birthday is a painful and bloody death!”

An older couple, clearly tourists, looked at Spike with wide eyes and slowly backed away from him, dropping their selections and leaving the store in a rush. Spike rolled his eyes and made his way to the counter and the bored clerk, who was reading a magazine.

“Can I see the necklace ya got in the window, there?” he asked, not bothering with Spanish in this shop that catered to tourists, tilting his head toward the display window. “The red one?”

The young man nodded, setting his reading material down, and retrieved the necklace, laying it out on a black velvet display board on top of the glass case. Spike picked it up, feeling the weight of it and watching the jewels shift and glow in the light. His first impression was confirmed – they did look like blood against his pale skin, running down in heavy drops. He turned the little paper tag over and pursed his lips. Not as much as he’d thought it would be… still, wouldn’t want to insult the bloke by not dickering a bit.

Just as he was about to make a counteroffer, a flash of what looked like sunlight reflected off another necklace in the case below him. He slid the velvet pad over a bit to get a better look at a stone that was a swirl of yellow and orange set in an intricately woven cage of gold.

“What’s that, then?” he asked, pointing to it.

“Sunstone,” the young man answered, his accent light, pulling it out, as well. “It is from Sinaloa, in the northwest, on the coast,” he explained, handing Spike the necklace. “It is the same stone as in the Talavera wall sculpture, along with moonstone,” the man pointed out, nodding to the colorful eclipse piece Spike had been looking at before.

Spike turned it over in his hand, once again watching the light flicker over the gem, this time though, it wasn’t blood that the sight conjured, but the sun. Fierce brilliance blazing against his palm. He lost himself in the play of the light for several long moments, watching it dance against his skin as he turned the stone this way, then that.

Memories he thought were long lost cascaded through his mind as he gazed at the warm, shimmering hues of the gem. He smiled as he recalled holidays spent at the seaside with his family when he’d been no more than a lad. The glittering sun had been a beacon which called him to the shore each morning before the crowds appeared. The sand and the surf were a marvel to be explored with breathless abandon for those few days each summer. That marvelous world bathed in sun had been his playground, its rays warming him after splashing in the chilly ocean. Thankfully, his parents were lenient and tolerant of his larks. They always listened with rapt attention when he recounted his adventures to them upon his return to the promenade, where they passed the time ‘taking the air’. Those had been truly magical days, full of love and laughter, long before illness had claimed either of his parents.

He looked between the necklace of blood and the pendant of the sun, feeling that painful tearing sensation in his chest return from his nightmares. In one hand he held darkness, in the other radiance. In one hand, death; in the other, life. In one hand his future; in the other his past. In one hand his destiny, his dark princess; in the other his mortal enemy, the Slayer. They both seemed to be pulling at him, each with their talons sunk deep into his flesh, tugging mercilessly. And it was bloody exhausting!

“Argh,” he groaned, closing his eyes and shaking off the vision of the sunstone laying against Buffy’s tan skin, of her megawatt smile, of her fingers dancing over it appreciatively. ‘ _Not buying the sodding Slayer jewelry, for fuck’s sake! Done nothing but cause problems for you, she has! Nothing but stir trouble with Dru and give you bloody nightmares!’_

“Sir?” the young man asked, confused.

Spike opened his eyes, setting the sunstone down and turning his attention to the blood droplets. “Right, what’s the best price ya can do on this, then?”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

If it wasn’t so poncey, Spike would’ve been whistling as he returned to their room in the early morning hours. The blood-drop necklace was in a velvet box in his pocket, his belly was full of blood, and the promise of a long day spent making slow, sweet love to his princess lay ahead of him. They’d nap and cuddle, watch a little telly, make love again – a perfect, romantic day. Then, at nightfall, they’d pack their things and head south, head for Brazil, just like they’d planned all along.

There was nothing that could ruin this day. Nothing that could wipe the smile from his face. Nothing that could take the bounce from his step.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called jovially as he opened the door to their room, knowing from the thrum in his borrowed blood that his sweet, dark plum was inside. “And I’ve got a treat for you.”

Dru was curled up like a napping cat on the bed, her naked body blending in with the white sheets, only her dark hair, painted nails, and ruby lips giving away her presence. She unfurled like a flower, stretched languidly, unashamedly, and looked at Spike expectantly.

“A present for mummy?” she purred, her blue eyes filled with avarice as she sat up, graceful and sinuous.

Spike’s smile was lecherous, his eyes roaming over his wicked princess like a physical caress. He pointedly adjusted the sudden bulge in his jeans, curling his tongue against his teeth. “Got lots of presents for my princess,” he promised in a deep, rich rumble.

He stalked forward slowly, pulling the velvet box from his duster pocket. He held it out to her on the flat of one palm, opening it slowly with the other hand.

Dru’s girlish shriek of happiness was everything he’d ever hoped for. Her pure joy was the thing that fueled him, that warmed him, that soothed his every ache, made him forget every past wrong and crave an eternity in her arms.

She reached out and lifted the necklace from the case, tittering with happiness. The blood-red teardrops tinkled against each other as she did, glimmering in the lamplight. “Oh, my Spike. It’s beautiful. It sings such sweet songs… like bleeding roses and tears drowning in the ocean.” 

“You like it, pet?” he asked, her joy suffusing him, making his heart practically beat with love for her.

“It’s wonderful… like candy floss for the sprites and spirits, it is,” Dru assured him, turning around and holding her hair up for him to put it on her.

Spike took it from her hand and slipped the delicate chain around her regal neck, hooking it in place with ease. “Let’s have a look at the birthday girl, then,” he suggested as she turned around, her fingers caressing each of the shimmering drops of red that seemed to paint her pale skin in blood.

“Silly Spike, your princess’ birthday comes as the new moon waxes to crescent slivers,” she reminded him.

“Just couldn’t wait, pet. Had to see you in it,” he admitted, caressing her cheek lightly with his fingertips.

“Does it suit me?” she asked coquettishly.

“Perfect, my sweets. Just like you,” Spike assured her, leaning in to touch a gentle kiss to her lips.

Dru wrapped one hand around his neck, returning the kiss with increasing fervor, making Spike’s jeans increasingly uncomfortable. Spike pulled back from her grip, shrugging his duster from his shoulders and tossing it over a chair. As she watched with that same unbridled glee, he stripped off his overshirt, then his t-shirt, his sire’s blue eyes drinking in each new swath of skin he revealed. When he shucked out of his boots and jeans, her wide, eager eyes devoured him greedily.

She reached a hand out in invitation and he took it, letting her pull him onto the bed. Their kisses were soft but deep, their touches reverent and loving. She pressed him down, taking the lead, the glittering necklace swaying above him, droplets of ruby-red fire just on the verge of falling. As he lay beneath her, Dru worshiped him with her lips and hands, not neglecting any part of his chiseled body. He watched her from beneath hooded lids, drinking in the pleasure she was pouring over him. Spike let her make love to him, relishing the sweet gentleness of her caresses, the way she whispered secrets into his skin, the way her long hair tickled his flesh. Then she settled atop him, taking him inside, and they were lifting each other to heaven, beyond the reach of any earthly worries, aches, or bonds.

It was gentle and slow. A rare treat. She was drowning him in passion and affection… dare he even think… love? “Dru… pet,” he breathed as they neared climax as one, his eyes fluttering closed against the building rapture inside. His heart swelled with undying devotion for this woman who had been his everything for so long, the woman who had plucked him from insipid mediocrity and turned him into something fierce and powerful.

Dru’s body stiffened, bliss rolling over her like a tidal wave as she screamed in a combination of pleasure and pain, her body convulsing wildly above him.

Fire seared through Spike’s chest and belly a moment later. His eyes flashed open, a bellow of agony and shock joining Dru’s scream. He bucked and rolled from beneath her, trying to get away from the blaze that suffused his torso. The scent of burned flesh filled the room, smoke rising from scorched skin, as he fell off the bed and crashed onto the floor.

Spike lurched to his feet in game-face, looking for an attacker, but all he saw was Dru, knocked to her back on the bed, seemingly lost in a rolling tide of sheer ecstasy. Her skin, from just beneath the necklace to the top of her thighs, was burnt, mottled in red and black, and still smoldering. In her hand was an empty bottle of holy water.

“Bloody hell,” he growled, stomping toward the bathroom. “What the bloody fuck’re you playin’ at?!” He hurriedly saturated a towel with cool water and returned to her with it, dropping it over her burned skin, diluting the holy water and suffocating the rising smoke.

She moaned contentedly and her eyelids fluttered open, looking up at him. “My deadly boy… always makes his mummy hurt so deliciously.”

Spike clenched his jaw, looking down at his own blackened skin, then back to her euphoric face. He shook his head, running a hand back through his disheveled hair. He should’ve known better – known the gentle lovemaking was nothing more than a farce, a game; nothing more than a lead-in to the pain. That rising tide of adoration and love inside him was suddenly tinged with disappointment and sorrow. The smile that he was sure could not be tamed, was gone, completely forgotten. He should’ve known by now… shouldn’t have let her fool him, but he’d needed a gentle touch so badly after their last violent joining in the alley. Couldn’t she, just once, let him have that?

He sighed, knowing all too well that she couldn’t. No matter how he tried to show her, to coax her, to play by her rules in hopes of her giving him something in return that he needed, she just couldn’t.

“Fuck’s sake, Dru… could give a bloke a bit o’ warning,” he grumbled, finally shaking off his demon and turning for the bathroom to rinse off his own smoldering flesh. “Could’a burned my fuckin’ knackers off!”

“But surprises ‘neath the tree make all the children merry and bright,” she giggled, closing her eyes, a satisfied smile curling her lips.

Spike stopped and turned back toward her, a heavy sigh falling from his lips as he looked down at his smoldering stomach. She seemed utterly delighted, floating dreamily in the blissful pain she’d added to the pleasure. Pain that she craved. Pain it seemed that she needed to be satisfied. He shook his head morosely and headed for the bathroom again, leaving her to drift happily in the ether with the sprites and spirits.

In the shower, Spike immersed himself in the clear, warm spray, letting it rinse away the remnants of the burning holy water, wishing it could wash away the burning hurt and frustration inside, as well. He braced his hands against the broken tiles beneath the showerhead, shaking his head dejectedly, his eyes closed, his shoulders slumped.

Except for those times when she pushed him over the edge, infuriated his demon so thoroughly that he completely lost control, nothing Spike did was ever quite good enough for Dru. Never as good as ‘daddy’. No matter how hard he tried, how much he gave, how monstrous he was, he was always in the shadow of the great git.

He remembered last Valentine’s Day, the lovely necklace he’d managed to get her — no small feat from his wheelchair — had been completely overshadowed by the gift from Angelus. Angelus – who wouldn’t have even known it was sodding Valentine’s Day if he hadn’t heard Spike going over what he needed with some nearly-useless minions. It had taken several nights, the daft fledges coming back with utter rubbish, before one finally stumbled on that beautiful bauble.

But none of that was appreciated for more than a few seconds in light of the warm heart – clearly a hurried, last-minute gift – from her precious ‘daddy’. Her ‘daddy’ who always took such pleasure in hurting her, who had abandoned her without a glance back, whose arms she fell right back into when he returned, as cruel and uncaring as ever.

Why couldn’t she just give Spike what _he_ needed now and then? Why couldn’t they just once have sex without pain, without violence, without bitter anger fueling it? Why couldn’t they _make love_ instead of shagging like bloody demons?

“Arrrghh!” he growled suddenly, slamming his fist against the already cracked and crumbling wall. “Cos you _are_ a sodding demon! Stop being a whiny little Nancy-boy!” It wasn’t like Spike didn’t enjoy the cruder, more loutish points the life of a vampire offered. He relished a good kill as well as the next monster. He craved a proper spot of violence – a good fists and fangs brawl – just as much as any vampire. He relished the sting of the lash against pale skin or the tug of restraints just like any demon… and a fair number of non-demons.

So why did he feel so empty?

‘ _Not monster enough.’_ The thought couldn’t be banished. It just kept rearing its ugly head, over and over. No matter how hard he tried to be her perfect monster, to make her truly love him, it was never enough.

Buffy’s eyes looked back at him from behind his closed lids, this time understanding and concerned. Her too-perceptive question from that road trip ringing in his ears, _‘Do you ever get tired of being the one that does all the giving?’_

Spike’s throat constricted with grief and sorrow, a sob shaking his stooped shoulders. “Yes,” he whispered into the warm spray. “Yes.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Dru was off with the fairies when Spike finally emerged from the bathroom, her mind lost between dream and fantasy. He sighed, too many emotions converging inside him to properly sort out. It was like a battlefield with Mongol hordes, Panzer tanks, and the Khmer Rouge all clashing in one confused and chaotic melee while rumbling aircraft dropped Napalm atop it all. Even if his jumbled feelings could be untangled, he was just too tired to try.

He pulled the soaking towel off Dru, tossing it in the general direction of the bathroom, then tried to find a relatively dry place to lay down on the bed to get some kip. Dru hummed and murmured to things he couldn’t see, never once noticing anything amiss as she ran her fingers over the blood-red necklace around her neck. Spike turned his back to her and closed his eyes as the incendiary bombs fell on the struggle inside, devastating his heart with their orange flames and thick, black smoke.

He finally fell asleep as the war raged, battle lines blurred, and defenses crumbled.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Night had fallen. The car was packed. Brazil awaited them. It was what Dru wanted – where she’d wanted to go all along. It was the only thing Spike could think to do – what he’d always done: follow Dru as she followed the pixies. It was his destiny, after all.

Spike was ready to go. The only problem was, Dru had slipped away while he’d been loading their bags into the car. He could’ve tracked her down, of course, but he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know where she was or what, _or who_ , she was doing. So, instead, he’d settled himself in the bar across the street for a pint… or two, or three, and waited.

He felt her return before the end of the Man U vs. Aberdeen football match that was playing on the telly over the bar. Man U was up 1-0, not a particularly comfortable margin. Spike watched a bit longer, finishing his pint, and really wished he hadn’t. In the 64th-minute, Beckham signaled to the bench that his game was up – a groin injury – and not two minutes later Aberdeen leveled it at 1-1.

“Bloody ponce,” he cursed Beckham before tipping the rest of the cerveza into his mouth. He stood up, dropped some bills on the bar, and headed back across the street to retrieve Dru and get on the road.

If he’d been paying attention instead of thinking about Beckham and whether the bloody poofter would be able to play in Sunday's FA Cup meeting with Liverpool, he would’ve known Dru wasn’t alone in the room – but he wasn’t and so he didn’t, not until he stepped inside and his eyes landed on her.

“I’ve brought a tasty treat for my deadly boy,” Drusilla cooed from the bed, her clothes having been shed, scattered haphazardly on the floor. The only thing adorning her lithe body was the blood-drop necklace.

Spike stopped short, the door clicking closed at his back, and stared at the ‘treat’ Dru was holding, unable to speak, unable to move. Dru held a girl in her arms, the child’s back to the vampire’s front as they both sat on the bed. The youngster, wearing a frilly, pink sundress, was held tight between ‘mummy’s spread legs. One of the vampiress’ arms was wrapped around the girl’s torso, pinning her small arms to her sides. Dru’s sallow skin was a sharp contrast to the rich caramel of her captive, which was flushed and damp with fear. There was a gag in the child’s mouth, keeping her from screaming, though it didn’t stop her whimpers. The pre-pubescent girl had a pink ribbon holding up what remained of a ponytail, though most of her dark hair had come free and hung in tangled waves around her shoulders. She had only one shoe, the other apparently lost trying to get away from the vampire. The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve, no part of her yet blossomed into womanhood.

“Isn’t she scrumptious? We shall be a family… mummy and daddy and baby makes three,” Dru trilled as one hand caressed the child’s bare thigh just below the short hem of the dress.

Spike gawped at her, frozen in place by the scene. The youngster’s red-rimmed eyes turned to him, boring through him like laser beams. Terrified. Shimmering. Green. The night in the alley came flooding back to him, along with every raw, painful emotion which was inexorably joined to it. ‘ _My baby sister, Jillie – she’s only twelve.’_

He blinked. Blinked again. Not green. Brown. Brown eyes. Alive. Trembling. Crying.

“We’ll make her ours, my Spike… forever and ever,” Drusilla purred, running her tongue up the girl’s heated cheek, tasting the salty tears. “She tastes of the sea, deep and wild, and cries so beautifully – a mermaid washed up on the waves just for us. She’ll bleed so prettily… from the inside, like I bled for you, and we’ll be a family.”

Spike swallowed, the sound deafening in his own ears. Everything seemed suddenly too loud. The girl’s heart fluttered like a frightened bird. He could hear the springs of the bed squeaking in time with her trembling. He thought he could even hear Dru’s fingers as they slid slowly over the child’s bare leg.

“Th—” he started, but had to swallow again before he could rasp, “That wasn’t me, pet… that bled you like that. Wasn’t me.”

Dru gave him an indulgent smile. “All daddies must see to their daughters, my Spike... make them bleed so beautifully. Make them shriek in blissful agony and love with dead hearts.”

Spike shook his head, his heart twisting in pain. “Not all, Dru. Some can love without… without blood … without screams.”

“LIES!” she bellowed at him furiously, making the girl cringe and squeak from behind the gag. Dru’s arm tightened on the child dangerously, threatening to crush her, while the vampire’s deadly nails dug into the flesh of her thigh, drawing blood.

Spike held up his hands in supplication. “Okay, pet… you’re right, o’ course,” he cajoled, stepping closer to the bed as if approaching a ravenous Velociraptor. “Let’s have a look, then, eh? What sweet treat have you brought daddy?”

Dru pulled her hand away from the girl’s leg, lifting a blood-soaked finger to her childe, offering it to him. Ruby-red droplets rolled down smooth, olive-toned flesh from five half-moon punctures, reminding Spike of the necklace his sire still wore. “Have a taste, my Spike… she’s ever so ripe, ready to pluck, like perfect pomegranates in the chill of autumn.”

Spike pulled her finger between his lips, his stomach writhing in disgust. It tasted of innocence, and of fear, terror, horror. It should’ve been an aphrodisiac; it would’ve been for Angelus. It wasn’t for him. It never had been. _Not monster enough._

“Delicious.” Spike forced the word out through his tight throat as Dru withdrew her finger from between his lips. “Let’s have a proper taste, then,” he suggested, the beer he’d drunk bubbling and burning at the back of his throat, threatening to return. He swallowed again, forcing it back, trying to think, his mind racing. He could feel accusing green eyes boring into his back, could feel Buffy’s disapproving gaze on him, feel her revulsion, her anger, her contempt; he could feel true hatred raging in her chest. ‘ _I hate you,’_ echoed in his mind, the words not said lightly or half in jest, but harshly, bitterly.

And it wasn’t just her revulsion and contempt he felt – it was his own. _Not monster enough._

With the utmost care, Spike reached down and tugged the girl by her feet, pulling her down the bed toward him and out of Dru’s grasp as she sobbed and quaked in terror.

“You must make her scream and cry tears like raindrops, my Spike. She shall fly through heaven ‘fore hell can ‘ave her,” Dru advised, watching with undisguised, gleeful anticipation.

“Always make you scream, don’t I, luv?” he asked, giving Dru what he hoped was a heated leer.

“Oh, yes…” she breathed, closing her eyes and running her nails down her bare body. She shuddered in pleasure as she opened barely-healed burns on her breasts and stomach. Droplets of blood oozed from the wounds, matching the shimmering necklace she wore in a macabre tableau of life imitating art.

As soon as Dru’s eyes closed and she seemed distracted, Spike snatched the girl up, cradling her against his chest. Dru’s eyes flashed open, alert to the change in his demeanor or perhaps warned by the pixies. She shrieked in outrage, lunging for him and the child, but she was a split-second too late. She tumbled off the end of the bed as Spike sprinted the few steps to the door.

“¡Vete! ¡Corras!” he shouted at the girl, yanking the door open and depositing her outside in the hallway. “¡Vete la mierda!” he yelled one more time, shoving her away, before slamming the door closed between them.

He hadn’t yet turned around when Dru crashed into his back, growling and screaming her ire, clawing at his neck and head. Spike’s face slammed into the metal door, his nose taking the brunt of the impact. Blood gushed and splattered the wall like a monochromatic Jackson Pollock canvas – an abstract in red and white. He growled, his demon rising, and struck back with an elbow, catching his sire in the ribs, then jerked his head backwards, trying to return the favor and flatten her nose. The elbow dislodged her enough that his headbutt was futile, but he grabbed her hands, her nails still raking at his skin. Twisting around with preternatural speed and agility, he managed to yank her completely free of his back.

“DRU! STOP!” Spike demanded, as he tossed his sire back onto the bed, but she just hit and bounced up again, driven by rage, and launched herself at him, screaming incoherently. Spike grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back again, once more imploring her to, “STOP! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Too soft to hurt me!” she sneered at him, standing back up but not attacking. “ _I’m_ the mummy! We play _my_ games! My rules! Not Willie’s!”

“Cos your games are so bloody brilliant?!” he bellowed back at her, his chest heaving with unneeded breath. Blood spewed from his nose and dribbled from scratches and gouges she’d left on his head and neck. He paid none of it any mind as he began pacing in a tight circuit, keeping between her and the door, lest she go after the child.

“Like jolly gnomes dancing around tiny elephants at the circus, they are!” she declared. “Frolicsome and merry!”

“Merry, is it?” he repeated sarcastically, his frenetic pacing not slowing as he ranged further from the door with each circuit. “Like screwing the sodding rainbow in the alley, and havin’ half the policia in the city after us? Like helping Angelus end the world with his big rock? In case you hadn’t noticed, _we’re_ in the bloody world, Dru!” Spike pointed out, swinging his arms out to encompass the world at large. “Did _that_ little fact ever even occur to your daft pixies and jolly gnomes? Oh! Excuse me! You don’t believe in sodding _facts_ , do you?” he snarled, turning his exasperated, furious glare on her. “Enjoyed Prague, did you? Like Vienna before that? Like Petersburg? Like Budapest!? Was all that fun for you? Runnin’ for our lives? Gettin’ beaten half to death?”

“I’m the mummy!” she contended again, stomping her bare heel down like a petulant child, her yellow eyes flashing with fury.

“You’re bloody insane, is what you are!” Spike shot back contemptuously, coming to a stop and jabbing an accusing finger at her. “Mad as a hatter and twice as bent! Always off plundering with the fucking fairies, leaving ol’ Spike to clean up the mess, pull your ass out of the fire! I’m bloody tired of it, Dru!”

“You used to be a good doggie! Ripping and rending, making beautiful death draped in streamers and dripping rubies.”

“The sodding world is changing, woman! Wake the fuck up!” Spike insisted. “Where’d ya get that girl, eh? From the square? In front o’ the church? Not a street urchin – someone’s gonna come lookin’ for her!” he pointed out. “And just what do ya reckon will happen when they find her here? The locals don’t have pitchforks anymore, you dozy bint! They have big sodding guns that’ll put big sodding holes in us! They have helicopters and SWAT vans and the bloody six o’clock news!”

“Piffle!”

Spike blinked. “Piffle? _Piffle?!?_ ” he repeated incredulously, finally wiping his blood-stained mouth and nose with the back of his hand.

“It’s not the world that changes – it’s you!” Dru accused. “You won’t kill the sunshine like you promised! Surrounded by Slayers, you are. One on your face, one on your back,” she continued, waving a hand at Spike’s scarred brow and the duster he wore. “And one squirming in your breast, carving out your lion’s heart.”

Spike clenched his jaw in frustration, his eyes closing, hands curling into fists at his sides. It always came back to the sodding Slayer. He wished he’d never even heard of fucking Sunnydale, never laid eyes on that blond bint, and most assuredly had never crossed paths with Angelus again.

“Forget the bloody Slayer, Dru,” he ground out, opening his eyes and looking at her, his demon receding, his blue eyes boring into her saffron ones. He took a step closer to her, laying a hand over his unbeating heart. “My heart isn’t in here, pet,” he said softly, coming within reach of his sire, his palm pressed to his blood-soaked shirt. “My heart’s here, next to yours,” he vowed, reaching out and laying his bloody hand over her unbeating heart.

Dru let her demon fade, as well, her blue eyes big, her expression softening, almost childlike. “I have a secret,” she whispered, leaning in near Spike.

“What’s that, kitten?” he asked, just as quietly.

“Mine’s not there,” she revealed, placing her hand over his on her chest. “Daddy has it in a gilded box, keeps it ‘neath his pillow, he does, next to his.”

Spike stared for several long moments, his expression twisting first with pure confusion, then with pained understanding, and finally with heartbroken rage.

Fucking daddy! That bloody fucking wanker Angelus! He’s all she ever wanted, where her heart lived, where it would _always_ live. And in a moment of clarity, he realized that it’s what she’d always wanted _him_ to be. Bringing that child here and expecting him to take her, to break her, to turn her – it was just the latest in his sire’s ongoing effort to turn him into a proper monster. Turn him into Angelus.

Joyce’s words to him rang like a klaxon in Spike’s mind, his entire body trembling with the reverberations of it, _‘That sounds like a very lonely way to spend eternity, trying to be what you aren’t.’_

Thermal rage detonated in Spike’s chest and exploded like an atom bomb. He felt something inside him split and crack. His world was being savagely ripped apart. Giant, dark chasms formed where once there had been reverence, love, and adoration, threatening to swallow him from the inside out. After everything he’d done, everything he’d ever sacrificed for her, every pretty girl in pretty dresses he’d brought her, every opera he’d sat through, every mob he’d fought off, every indignity he’d endured, every human and demon she’d ever fucked right in front of him… after _everything_ , he’d never had any chance of winning her heart. She’d never love him, no matter how much of a monster he became.

He roared as it all crashed over him. Anger, frustration, and heartache warred for dominance, leaving him reeling, trembling with fury and despair. He pounded the palm of his hand against his forehead, trying to get it all to stop, for the chaos to settle, for some sanity to return.

Nothing settled, sanity had vanished, all that remained was mayhem and turmoil.

Spike narrowed his eyes and looked back at her, his blue eyes flashing with feral fury. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest heaved with unneeded breaths, and the battle within him turned outward. As she opened her mouth to say something else, his hands shot out and grabbed her thin arms in a bruising grip, leaving his bloody handprints on her skin.

Dru squeaked in surprise and pain as he yanked her bare body against his bloodied shirt. He held her there for what felt like an eternity, his chest rising and falling with unneeded breath as his wrath galvanized into sharp shards of ice.

“Dru, luv?” he rasped against her ear, his voice unnervingly calm.

“Yes, my Spike?”

“Have daddy and his sodding gilded box kill the Slayer for you,” he rumbled in an even, smooth baritone that was a cold as glacial ice. “I’m fucking done.”

The words hadn’t even registered yet when he tossed her back onto the bed again. She tumbled ass over teakettle, bouncing off the bed, onto the floor, and came to rest against the wall on the other side with a dull thud. Before she’d even come to a full stop, Spike spun on his heel and had the door to the room open.

“It’s still my turn!” Dru shrieked, picking up the child’s shoe that had been missing and flinging it at him.

It hit Spike in the back of the head, and he paused to look back at her. “No, pet, it’s _my_ bloody turn!” he shot back with a growl, before disappearing. The heavy metal door rattled the entire wall as he slammed it closed on his sire – his eternal love, his world.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike threw himself behind the wheel of the DeSoto, his hands gripping it nearly to the point of crushing the ancient relic. He shook the steering wheel and pounded a fist against it, growling and cursing. Then he suddenly flung the door open, kicking it with a booted foot when it swung back on him, and jumped out again. He slammed the door with a resounding, “FUCK!” and began pacing back and forth next to the car, not sure what to do now. His world had been turned inside out and upside down. His blood was boiling in his veins and freezing in his heart, and the steam rising from where the two met was fogging his mind with a bone-deep ache of confusion.

All his kit was in the car, ready to go. All he had to do was get in and drive. Leave. Never look back. Could do whatever the fuck he wanted. No one to stop him. No one to whine and pout about it. Leave the dozy bint to her own devices – see how well that worked out for her!

He stopped and looked around, listening for sirens or other signs that the girl he’d set free had summoned the authorities. He should’ve just killed her; would’ve been the smart thing – the safe and prudent thing. But it wasn’t what had come to mind in that moment – saving her had. Those bloody green eyes!

He pulled at his hair in frustration. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“That sodding Slayer,” he muttered, beginning his pacing again. Maybe he should just go back to Sunnydale and kill Summers good and proper this time. Get everything back to normal, that would. Close those green eyes for good, stop them boring into his muddled brain. Stop Dru prattling on about the bleeding sunshine.

Suddenly tears stung his eyes. Dru. His destiny. His eternal love. Dru’s heart wasn’t his. Never had been. He’d known that, of course, deep down, but she’d never said it before – not so plainly. Never before admitted that her heart wasn’t his to hold, that he could never win it, no matter what he did. Over a century of protecting her, catering to her every whim, rescuing her, healing her, pouring his love over her and… her heart was never there. Never with him.

“Bloody fucking bitch!” he growled, slamming his fist down on the trunk of the car parked next to the DeSoto and denting it with a squeal of metal. “It’s not sodding fair!” he exclaimed, regretting it immediately, as the girl from the alley – Lisa with the dead green eyes – appeared in his mind, crying and accusing… _‘It’s not fair!’_

Spike threw his head back and howled to the night, stirring every dog for miles to join him, their barks echoing through the streets.

“Sod it!” he snarled. Opening the trunk of the DeSoto and grabbing Dru’s bag, he stalked back to their room. Spike opened the door with his key to find Dru still sitting on the floor where she’d landed after he’d thrown her. She wore only the necklace he’d gotten her, which still shimmered like blood against her skin.

She looked so small, so vulnerable there, with her big blue eyes staring up at him from across the room. His first instinct was to go to her, to fall to his knees and hold her as he begged forgiveness, but he clenched his jaw against those urges, feeling the tears he’d been fighting start to leak from his eyes. He didn’t try to hide them or wipe them away – he was beyond caring what she saw now. They slipped down his cheeks, washing trails in the blood, and falling in watery red splatters on the tile.

He tossed her bag on the floor inside the door, then dug into his pockets and pulled out all the dosh he had left, and dropped it, too. Finally, he held his key up and let it fall from his fingers, landing with the money atop her bag.

It felt so wrong for it to end this way. Going out with a whimper rather than a bang. He and Dru were eternal. They were nothing if not passionate, fiery, and tempestuous. Creatures of the night, wild, untamed, and fierce. There should be fireworks. There should be buildings pounded into rubble. There should be angels littering the ground, their wings charred, white robes stained red. There should be shrieks of burning pixies filling the air. Stars should be falling from the sky, the sun should be nothing more than embers, and the moon should weep tears of blood.

There was none of that. There were blue eyes – his shimmering with heartache, hers swimming with confusion. The silence was deafening.

“My turn,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out, before backing out the door.

It closed with what felt like a world-ending ‘click’. He placed his palm flat against the cool metal and bowed his head, his tears falling unchecked. “It’s not fair,” he murmured before sniffing, squaring his shoulders, gathering his courage, and walking away.

The End.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Story Board**

**Mexico**

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**End Notes:**

**The end?** What do you mean THE END?? There are too many dangling plots! That’s not THE END!

Okay, you’re right, it’s not the end of the series, but the end of this part of the story. The saga will continue with the next episode called, _‘My Turn’_ , which is complete at 38 chapters. I will begin posting it tomorrow (Sunday). The next story will deal primarily with Cruciamentum, the lead-up to it and the aftermath, and, of course, Spike figuring out what he wants to do now that he’s declared it ‘his turn.’

Also, yes, Buffy and Dru do share a birthday. Both are born, [according to Wiki,](https://buffy.fandom.com/wiki/Drusilla) on January 19th. The party Dru was planning in 'Surprise' was actually her birthday party.

I want to also remind you that even if you ‘favorite’ a series, at this time, you will **not** get a notification of updates. To get notified of new stories, you’d have to favorite me as an author.

Thank you sooo much for reading!! I love and appreciate you all much more than I can say!! I was really worried that people wouldn’t like this story because of Spike and Buffy literally being in different countries the entire time. I’m so pleased that you’ve all enjoyed taking this ride with me! After discussing it with Holi117 A LOT, we decided no one would believe Spike would leave Dru if they didn’t see what he’d been through. Thank you for all the love you’ve shown this episode! I promise Spike and Buffy will meet again soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I will be posting a couple of chapters a week, more if I get impatient.


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